


The Lark Ascending

by borichu



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adventure, Bard Dragonborn - Freeform, Bards, Bards College (Elder Scrolls), Canon Related, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming of Age, F/M, Fluff, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Intrigue, Love, Male-Female Friendship, Minor Character Death, Music, Politics, Self-Acceptance, Slow Build, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 125,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27432079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borichu/pseuds/borichu
Summary: A young Breton noble steps off a ship in Solitude. Sick of living in the shadow of her family's title, Kirilee Dobraine, daughter-heir of the Duke of Aldcroft, has come to Skyrim to prove that she can make a name for herself without the wealth and influence afforded by her station.Things are not so simple, however, and Kirilee soon finds herself tested in more ways than she could ever have imagined: embroiled in local politics, threatened by a looming civil war, and drawing the attention of dangerous entities both mortal and divine. How can a gentle, pampered musician, struggling to decide who she is, survive and find a place in this harsh new land she has chosen?She can't do it alone. Luckily, she won't have to.A story about the power of friendship, and the strength born of kindness of spirit and a good heart.
Relationships: Female Dohvakiin | Dragonborn & Meeko, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn & Inigo the Brave, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Original Male Character(s), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 315
Kudos: 48





	1. Arriving in Solitude

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who want to know what you're getting in for (otherwise, feel free to skip these notes):
> 
> This fic covers Kirilee, a nobly-born Breton bard, building a new life for herself in Skyrim and dealing with the problems and struggles arising therefrom: there's a heavy focus on friendships and relationships, lots of fleshing out of minor, often overlooked NPCs, and only a few handpicked (often substantially reinterpreted) quests. The overall plot is canon-adjacent but diverges significantly from gameplay.
> 
> Kirilee is Dragonborn, but it is only relevant in roundabout ways to the events of this fic. There is no main quest content at all (it will be covered in the sequel), and no faction quests, outside of the Bards' College, inasmuch as that counts as a 'faction'. There is romance, but it is not the main focus of the narrative. The central relationship in the fic is the friendship between Kirilee and Inigo.
> 
> The fic is fully outlined and plotted, currently about 3/4 written, and I anticipate having it completely written by the end of April. The final work should be roughly 45 chapters in length. Updates weekly.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, and I hope you enjoy spending time in Kirilee's world as much as I have!
> 
> Many thanks to [wandavon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandavon/) for beta reading and advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \---PART ONE---

Solitude was finally in sight.

After weeks at sea, with nothing but the dull monotony of endless steely-grey waves, the sight of land — any land — would have been welcome. But what met my eyes was far from any ordinary glimpse of sea-strewn cliffs or sandy beaches. I gasped and jumped to my feet from the coiled rope on which I had been sitting on the deck. I had read about the famous Solitude Arch, seen drawings — but nothing could have prepared me for the awe-inspiring majesty of the enormous stone archway jutting from the sea on one side and the land on the other, with the city of Solitude perched defiantly on top. It was just as spectacular, just as improbable, as I’d always been told. It didn’t look like it should be _allowed_ — how on Nirn had such a ridiculous structure of rock even formed? And what mad genius had decided to construct a _city_ on top of it? It was crazy. Wonderful. I squinted, and thought I could perhaps make out the splashes of blue and red that would indicate the famous Blue Palace and Solitude Windmill respectively, though from this distance, it was equally likely to just be my imagination. The buildings looked so small that it was hard to believe people lived in them, rather than dolls. I marvelled. Living in Solitude must be like living in the sky.

The following hours passed in an almost painful combination of nervous excitement and draining tedium. Solitude and its harbour seemed to only inch closer, and after an hour or two of anxious pacing I had settled myself back on the coil of arm-thick rope, pack at my feet, lute case in my lap. I drummed an anxious tattoo with my fingers. We were so _close_! Surely it could not be much longer!

As the _Wind’s Pleasure_ passed underneath the enormous stone arch I looked upwards, and stretched my arms out as far as I could, imagining brushing the weathered rock with my fingertips. I thought of the people hundreds of feet above my head, entirely unaware of the ship directly beneath their feet. Did they ever think about the fact that they were walking in the sky? I hoped so. It would be a shame to waste such a special city on people who didn’t appreciate it.

The arch was so huge, so wide, that for the minutes we spent underneath it we were cast into a strange, unnatural gloom. Every sound echoed strangely, making me feel disoriented and uncomfortable. Then we were back out into the summer sunshine once more. We were in Solitude Harbour, the meeting-place of three great waters: the Sea of Ghosts, the Karth River, and the sprawling marshes to the ship’s left. The sailors, of course, would have said that the marshes weren’t to the _left_. They were to port, or maybe starboard — I could never remember which was which — but as I wasn’t talking to any sailors I defiantly thought of them as being on our _left_. I didn’t understand why these ocean-going types had to come up with all these confusing names for things when there were perfectly serviceable words already.

Slowly, ever so slowly, far too slowly, the _Wind’s Pleasure_ drew into the docks and … docked, I supposed. The process of tying the ship fast — was there a nautical name for that, too? — also seemed to take far longer than it should have. While I waited I drank in the sight of the city of Solitude. My new home; for a time, at least. Though the walled upper city was still far above, the lower city stretched all the way down the hill from the cliffs where the arch joined the mainland, connecting the sea to the sky. The whole hillside was a patchwork of differently-coloured tiled roofs, many of the city’s buildings precariously perched on the cliff-faces themselves. I wondered whether any of them ever slipped and fell into the harbour below.

I watched fishermen pouring their morning’s catch into wooden boxes, calling to one another and haggling amicably with the merchants who had braved the docks for the privilege of having first pick of the ocean’s bounty. I watched the loading and unloading of other larger merchant’s vessels, like ours, some of which brought exotic wares from far-away provinces to sell in Skyrim, others of which would be carrying Skyrim’s products to those same far-away ports. I tried to remember what Skyrim’s main exports were, but was too excited and jittery to focus.

Eventually Elanna, the ship-mistress, hurried over to me. Not for the first time I was amazed by the grace with which she moved around the ship, despite her bulky musculature. Though she was only a few inches taller than me I would have wagered she weighed at least half as much again as I — all of it muscle.

“We’re ready, your Ladyship,” she said. “You can disembark whenever you’d like.”

“Thank you, Elanna. But really, from today I’m not ‘your Ladyship’ any more — just Kirilee.”

Her lips crooked into a little half-smile. “Perhaps. But while Lord Perival’s daughter is on this ship, she is, and always will be, her Ladyship.”

I laughed, but inwardly felt a small flicker of anger. Even here, weeks of travel away from home, I still wasn’t allowed to be my own person. Well, that would change the moment I stepped off that … gangplank? Was that what they called it?

Naelith, the captain, wandered over from where she had been supervising the unloading of the ship’s cargo and put her arm around her wife. “You sure about this, milady? Your passage is already paid both ways. You’ve seen Solitude now, you sure you don’t just want to come back home with us?”

“I’m sure,” I said firmly, slinging my lute over my back and picking up my pack.

“Well, if you change your mind, we’ll be here the next three days while we take on cargo and do some repairs. We’d be glad to have you on the return journey — nothing keeps a sailor from focusing on how hard he’s being worked than some music. Even if yours is … a bit fancy, for the men’s tastes.”

“You’re too kind,” I said, though I didn’t mean it.

I thanked the couple again, accepted their awkward bows, then strode off the _Wind’s Pleasure_ and into Skyrim. As I walked through the docks, wrinkling my nose slightly at the pervasive aroma of fish, I vowed to myself that it would be a long, long time before I set foot on that ship, or one like it, again. I certainly would not be back here within the three days, tail between my legs, admitting to Mother and Father and Naelith and Elanna and everyone back home that I had been wrong. When I went home it would be on my own terms, as a famous bard in my own right. Nobody would be able to say I was just another vapid Breton noblewoman, hitching an easy ride through life on the back of my family name. _Nobody_. I would show them all.

My irritation with the captain and mistress of the _Wind’s Pleasure_ burned out as I walked through the lower city. I stared in open glee at everything — the people, almost all of whom were so much taller than me that I felt like a child among crowds of adults; the little shops and houses squeezed together higgledy-piggledy into every available space; the trees and flowers, reminiscent of those at home yet somehow completely different — it all filled me with a bursting, tumbling joy and excitement. Perhaps what I loved most, though, was the _anonymity_. The crowds did not part as I moved through them, and I found myself smiling broadly as I had to wait for gaps in the foot traffic to squeeze through. Nobody looked twice at me, except perhaps in faint surprise that the small person pushing past them was not, in fact, a child; but a fully-grown woman. I revelled in it. Here I wasn’t Kirilee Dobraine, daughter-heir of the Duke of Aldcroft. I was just another small, annoying, red-headed foreigner, getting in the way of people trying to do honest work.

After an hour or two of huffing and puffing I found myself in front of the gates to the upper city. The scarlet-clad guards looked me over, spotted the lute case on my back, then nodded once and pushed open the small sally-port. I stepped through, and my breath caught in my chest. It was beautiful. While the lower city was full of the hustle and bustle of a busy port town, the upper city almost felt like a completely different city altogether. The buildings here were stately and grand. No tiny shacks crowded between the imposing stone structures. Each house and store looked as though it had been carefully placed exactly where it stood, and everything stood exactly in its proper place. Plants and flowers still burst from unexpected corners, but most were confined to well-maintained flowerbeds. I smiled and breathed in the air. Solitude. I had arrived.

I walked slowly along the cobblestones. People hurried about, just as in the lower city, but in a more … stately manner, as though they had unconsciously adopted some of the gravitas of the place itself. I noticed the high stone wall enclosing the city meant I couldn’t see out across the harbour or the sea at all, and felt my first twinge of sadness. Didn’t these people want to feel like they lived in the sky?

I passed an inn, with the odd name of ‘the Winking Skeever’, then a shop called Radiant Raiment with such exquisite gowns displayed in the windows that I itched to have a look. I myself wore only a simple cotton dress, and I longed to feel the touch of silks once more. With great reluctance I forced myself to turn away, and keep going. First the Bards’ College. Once I was admitted I could dally as much as I liked gazing at gowns. … Not that I was likely to be able to afford any at present, anyway. I had belatedly realised that I’d frittered away far too much of my coin on the journey from home, never before having had to think about whether or not I could _afford_ something. Never mind. Once I had coin of my own — I should receive a stipend from the College, I expected, and would probably be able to earn more performing at inns — I would learn how to manage it.

Though I knew roughly where to go to find the College, I still had to stop to ask for directions several times. It was such a large, towering city with its large, towering walls and large, towering buildings that I got turned around over and over again. I felt very small in this huge city with its huge people, and smaller still at the mistrustful, unfriendly glances I seemed to receive when I asked its inhabitants whether they might point me towards the Bards’ College. Then again, I might have imagined it all. The Nords had to quite literally look down their noses so far to see me that it may have only been my perspective that made them seem so aloof. I was heartened, at least, by the bards who seemed to be playing on every other corner I passed. This truly was a city that loved the arts. I could make this place my home.

By the time I finally found my way to the entrance of the College it was approaching late afternoon, and I was tired, hungry and footsore. I stopped and stared for a moment, a slow smile spreading across my face. It was a beautiful building: three stories high, built from intricately dressed stone, and every window stained glass. I knocked on the door, adjusted my lute on my back, and waited. Might they perhaps allow me to perform my audition the next morning, after a hot meal, a hotter bath, and a warm bed? I was sure I could still play well enough to be admitted today, but I wanted to properly _impress_ , for which I would have preferred to be better rested.

After a few minutes of waiting the door was opened by a blonde-haired Nord girl, roughly my own age. She peered around the half-open door.

“Um, hello?” she said.

“Good afternoon. I’m here to audition for admittance to the College,” I said, standing up straighter.

“Um. Okay. Wait here, I’ll go get the Headmaster.” The door shut with a firm click, and I was left to wait at the base of the short flight of steps. I ran quickly through my audition pieces in my head for the hundredth time. Yes, they would do. Even Master Ylbert said my command of the _Alphonsina_ was unparalleled for my level of tuition, and Guillemande’s _Etudes_ were a staple of the lute canon across the whole continent, apparently. They should serve.

After a much longer wait than before, the door was opened again, this time all the way. The open doorway framed a reasonably old-looking Altmer man, thin and wiry as a whip. Despite the lines on his face his hair hadn’t yet started to grey, and was instead a brilliant shade of gold. His clever, calculating eyes were also gold, but a deeper, amber-like colour, and with his pale-gold skin he appeared almost like a gleaming golden statue, illuminated by the late afternoon sun. He stood at the top of the steps, which meant that in combination with his height — he was at least a foot taller than me — I felt as though I was little more than a small child, staring up at a giant.

“I am Headmaster Viarmo,” he intoned. “I hear we have a new applicant? You should be aware that many apply, but we accept … very few.” He looked me up and down slowly, and I could tell he was not impressed. I knew I looked like a commoner — but I also knew for a fact that Solitude’s College admitted _plenty_ of commoners. I lifted my chin proudly and met his eyes.

“Yes. My name is Kirilee, and I —”

“Kirilee who?”

I flushed. By the Divines. I couldn’t believe I’d been _so stupid_. I had decided not to use my actual surname, of course, but hadn’t thought to come up with a different surname to use instead.

“Just — just Kirilee,” I replied defiantly, lifting my chin a little higher. It didn’t matter. He’d hear me play, and then I’d be admitted, and none of this would matter. I was suddenly painfully aware of how straggly and windswept my hair was. Perhaps I should have spent the night at an inn after all, then come here the next morning, fresh-faced and well-groomed.

“Well, _Just Kirilee_ ,” he said, his eyes lingering on my hair as I brushed it out of my face, “do you have any letters of introduction from your former Master or Masters?”

“… No.” I couldn’t bring a letter from Master Ylbert. It would have defeated the whole purpose of applying anonymously. He was one of the most well-known Masters of Lute in Tamriel — announcing I’d studied with him would be as good as shouting my true identity to all of Solitude. “But I have audition pieces prepared, I have the _Alphon—_ ”

Once more Headmaster Viarmo interrupted me. “No, no; I think I have a task befitting an aspiring bard of … your talents. I need you to go to Dead Men’s Respite. From there you will retrieve the long-lost King Olaf’s Verse, which we believe might be found there.” He gave me a rather unpleasant smile.

I gaped at him. _What?_

“What?” I choked out.

“Yes, yes, Elisif has forbidden the Burning of King Olaf, a festival traditionally put on by the Bards’ College. We need to change her mind. To convince her, I want to read King Olaf’s Verse.”

“But — I’m a _musician_ — my audition —” I gripped my lute case’s strap so tightly that my knuckles turned white.

The Headmaster was already turning to go back inside. “Come back when you’ve retrieved that verse, girl. Then we’ll talk about an _audition._ ” He pulled the door shut behind him, and I was left alone in the dying sunlight once more.

I stared at the closed door.

That —

That could have gone a _lot_ better.

After a few moments staring at the door I sank onto the stone steps leading up to the courtyard in front of the College, and pulled my lute around so it rested on my knees. I hugged the case tightly to myself, trying not to cry. How could he just … _turn me away_? I had no illusions about the absurd ‘task’ Headmaster Viarmo had set for me as my ‘application’. Solitude was crawling with mercenaries and adventurers — I had passed at least a dozen on my way through the city — and if this ‘long lost’ verse even existed I was sure they’d have hired some of _them_ to go find it. Not a scared young Breton girl in a cotton dress clutching a lute case. No. He just didn’t want to give me even the chance of an audition.

The injustice of it all welled up within me. Didn’t he see my lute was a Montaigne? Didn’t he know I had mastered the entirety of Perrien’s _Well-Tempered Lute_ by the time I was fifteen? Didn’t he know who I _was_?

 _No,_ a small voice said from the back of my mind, _he didn’t, and wasn’t that the whole point? Didn’t you insist you’d be admitted to the College, rise in fame, make a name for yourself_ without _anyone knowing who you were and where you came from? Well, you’re getting your wish._

I dashed furious tears from my eyes. Yes, that had been the point. But I hadn’t imagined I wouldn’t even be allowed to _audition_.

Now what? I stared glumly out into the street. My whole plan — such as it was — had hinged on my being admitted into the College, and working my way up from there, with the resources and status afforded me by my membership. But … well. That plan was out. What could I do instead?

 _You could go home_ , that same small voice said. _Go back to the_ Wind’s Pleasure _and sail back to Aldcroft. Go home, resume your responsibilities, make your parents proud. Give up on this foolish idea. Who are you trying to prove something to, anyway?_

I stood up sharply, startling a pigeon that had been pecking at the ground nearby. _No._ I would _not_ go home. I’d barely even made a proper attempt yet! So, the College had rejected me. I’d just have to spend some time as an independent bard, build up my name that way, then reapply later, once I was well-known enough that they would have to at least consider my audition. I had worked so hard to get here. I was hardly going to give up at the first hurdle. Skyrim _would_ accept me, whether it wanted to or not.

I swung my lute around so it rested on my back again, picked up my bag, chose a direction at random and began to walk. I would need to find an inn.

* * *

The sun slipped away as I wandered through the city, feeling lethargic and despondent. It had all gone so wrong, so quickly. Rather than spending my first night in Solitude as a student at the Bards’ College, my path forward secure and comfortable, I was just … a girl with a lute and a flute and a handful of change in her purse. Did I even have enough coin to pay for a room in an inn for the night? A chill ran through me. Surely I must. But then again, the purse of coins I’d brought with me from home had seemed like an enormous extravagance, and yet it had all but evaporated in only a month, most of which had been spent at sea. I admitted to myself that I was woefully underprepared for life in a foreign city on my own. By the Divines, I didn’t even know such obvious things as how much a night in an inn actually cost! Would I even be able to tell if an innkeeper was trying to fleece me? Probably not, I thought gloomily, while examining the beautiful stone buildings I was passing. I would just have to hope I found somewhere reputable, with an honest innkeep.

The thought of speaking to more hard-faced Nords twisted my stomach, so I instead stopped a passing child to ask for advice. She looked to be about ten or eleven, and possibly Imperial, I thought, which meant that she was roughly my own height. It felt very nice to look someone directly in the eyes again, even if those eyes were currently slightly narrowed in the near-permanent suspicion of those approaching adolescence.

“What?”

“I was hoping for your help,” I said, wondering whether she could see the desperation on my face. “I’m looking for an inn. A … nice one. One with a good innkeeper, and nice people.”

She sniffed. “Is that it? That’s _easy_. Follow me.” She spun around and strode away in the opposite direction to which I’d been walking, her brown curls bobbing around her shoulders.

I hurried after her, and fished out a coin. “Here —” I said, pressing it into her hand, “for your trouble.”

She held the coin up to her eye level, examining it as though she’d never seen such a thing before. Sniffing again, she handed it back. “I’m no urchin. Keep your money, lady. You look like you need it.”

I felt my cheeks warm. Surely I didn’t look so bad as all _that_?

“Who are you, then?” I said, then realising it could have come across quite rudely, “I mean, what’s your name?”

“Minette. Minette Vinius. What’s yours?”

“Kirilee,” I said. “Minette’s a pretty name.”

“So’s Kirilee. Where’re you from?”

“Daggerfall.” My lips stumbled a little over the lie.

“I’m from Skingrad. But I’ve been in Solitude longer’n I ever was there, so I reckon by now I’m actually from Solitude, probably.” She thought fiercely for a moment. “I reckon anyone who’s in Solitude for long enough is eventually from Solitude. Do you have any pets? I like dogs.”

The girl’s questions were relentless, but I did my best to satisfy them as we walked through the gradually darkening city; thinking quickly to come up with answers about my family and my home that weren’t too far from the truth, but also wouldn’t give too much away. _Well done, Kirilee,_ I thought to myself as Minette jabbered on about her collection of — did she say ales? No, surely not. I must have misheard, and she had actually said something like pails, or snails. _You wasted a whole month on that ship daydreaming about your new life in Skyrim, and now you have to come up with a convincing backstory while being interrogated by a ten-year-old. Well done, indeed._

I found myself liking Minette. Her bold confidence and easy companionship greatly helped soothe my frayed emotions, and I hoped I would run into her again. Though in a city this size I doubted it, and it was with a slight reluctance that I anticipated parting from her as we pulled up in front of a large inn: the Winking Skeever, the inn I had passed earlier in the day just inside the upper city’s gates.

“This is the Skeever. Best inn in the city,” she said, beaming at it with apparent pride.

“Thank you, Minette. I appreciated your help, and company — oh, are you going in too?” I asked, puzzled, as she pushed open the door and started to step through.

She gave me a withering look. “Course I am. My Papa’s the innkeeper. Coming?” She slipped through the door, and I followed a pace behind, shaking my head and feeling like I’d been tricked somehow — though I hadn’t ever asked Minette what her parents did, I realised. Perhaps she really had said _ales_.

The Winking Skeever was a large, warmly-lit inn in the style I’d seen in Camlorn, on those occasions that Mother had allowed me to peer inside one. The building was perhaps three stories tall, and much of what would have been the ceilings for both the ground and first floors had been knocked out, so that the common room into which the front door opened felt open and spacious and inviting. I glanced upwards, and noted that the first floor wrapped around in a sort of balcony. I supposed the guest rooms would probably be on the upper stories.

It was early enough that the common room itself had only a smattering of patrons, whose voices echoed in a way which made the room feel much fuller than it was. There was also a bard. My heart twisted painfully as I heard the strains of a lute, and my eyes traced the music to its source. A lean, blonde-haired Breton woman, several years older and several inches taller than me, sat in the back corner of the room, playing lazily while reclining in a wooden chair. My breath caught for a moment as her eyes flicked first to Minette’s, then my face — but she didn’t seem to recognise me, and I relaxed again. _Calm down_ , I told myself sternly. _The number of people likely to recognise you in this province is vanishingly small. If you panic every time a Breton looks your way you’ll give yourself a heart sickness._

“That’s Lisette,” Minette said, catching the direction of my gaze. “She’s nice, and pretty good. You can meet her later. Come meet Papa first. And — oh.” She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes as a broad, muscly ox of a man approached. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, but based on his curling brown hair and the enormous scowl on Minette’s face, I would have bet the rest of my purse that this man was probably her older brother.

“What’s this, Minette? Dragged in another lost songbird off the streets?” The man gave me a friendly nod. “No offence meant, of course. To you, anyway.” 

“This,” said Minette, her scowl deepening, “is Sorex. Sorex, this is Kirilee. Leave us alone, I’m taking her to talk to Papa.” I gave Sorex an apologetic shrug as Minette pushed past him and dragged me by one hand towards the bar. He grinned crookedly in response and chuckled, then returned to his sweeping.

The man behind the bar was a middle-aged Imperial, sandy-haired and friendly-faced. Though his hair was lighter than his children’s I could see their features reflected and matured in his own, and when he smiled at me, it was Sorex’s smile I saw.

“Who’s this you’ve brought with you, Minette? Another of your projects?”

“This is Kirilee, Papa. She’s new in Solitude and wants to be a bard.”

I blinked at her in shock. “How did you know that? I never told you …”

Minette gave me another withering look. I had the sense she probably wore it very frequently. “You’ve got a lute, and you were wandering around near the College looking for an inn. I’m not _stupid_.” She turned back to her father. “She’s nice. I like her.”

The innkeeper considered me. “Is that so, now. Wouldn’t take you on at the College, miss?”

“They … wouldn’t let me audition.” I flushed scarlet. Was I going to have to air my shame for every person I met? I refused to acknowledge the sympathetic looks of the innkeep and his children. I was _not_ someone to be pitied. “How much is a room for the night? And a meal. I can pay,” I said, more abruptly than I had intended. I pulled out my purse, and blushed even harder when I noticed the innkeeper’s eye lingering on its rather depressing flatness.

“Tell you what,” he said with a crooked grin. “Do _me_ a little audition, here and now. If you’re good enough, Lisette here can have the night off, you can play for the inn instead, and I’ll give you your room and board for free in exchange. Sound fair?”

I tried hard, but couldn't disguise the relief that washed over me at his words. “Sounds fair.” Minette clapped delightedly.

I squatted on the floor and flicked the clasps open on my lute case. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted the inn’s bard — Lisette — set down her own lute and drift over, looking interested.

“Hallo,” she said. “Just in from High Ro— surely that’s not a _Montaigne_?”

The innkeeper cocked an eyebrow at her. “Hrm?”

“It is,” I said to Lisette, then to the innkeeper, “Montaigne was a rather well-known Breton luthier.”

“Well-known! Legendary, more like! One of the greatest luthiers to ever live!”

“He was no Gaercroft,” I said distractedly, running my fingers over the strings, then beginning to adjust the tuning pegs. “I’m impressed you recognised my instrument, actually. Everyone seems to forget about Montaigne, when they’re talking about the greats.”

Lisette was still staring at my lute as though she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “Where on Nirn did you get one?”

Divines take it. Of course one of the first people I should meet would recognise my lute as noteworthy. This was, for once, a problem I had actually anticipated, but I had seen no way around it. I would not leave my lute behind and bring an inferior but more inconspicuous instrument. I could as easily have left behind my own arm.

“It was a gift, for my sixteenth birthday.” That much was true. “I have … a rather wealthy grandmother,” I added, in response to Lisette’s continued stare of disbelief. That was also true — though the two were wholly unrelated.

“Do you realise how _lucky_ you are?”

“Yes,” I said, again with perfect honesty, and stood up. I had finished tuning. It was time to play.

I let a simple chord ring out through the room — slightly less empty now, as patrons began to trickle in for the evening. Yes. The acoustics in here were as good as I’d hoped. After positioning myself underneath the overhanging balcony, so as to better reflect my sound throughout the room, I began to play.

I played _Alphonsina_ , just as I had been planning to play at the College. It felt fitting — and besides, I wanted to stretch my wings, so to speak. I was tired of being underestimated and looked down upon the whole day. It was time to soar.

The inn’s conversations died out one by one, and within a minute of launching into the piece I had the room’s undivided attention. Good. Let them see what I could do; let them carry tales of the skill of the bard whom the College hadn’t even deigned to audition. My right hand danced across the strings while my left danced up and down the fretboard. Soon I was completely submerged in my music, all anger and hurt and worry wiped clean from my mind, and all that existed was me and my lute and the interweaving contrapuntal strains of Rielle’s _Alphonsina_.

The final notes died away. There were a few seconds of silence, then a rather tepid round of applause. I blinked, disoriented. Where was I? Oh yes, the inn in Solitude. I needed to impress the innkeeper to win a room for the night and the opportunity to perform. I looked around the room until I found his eyes. Based on his expression … I would have my room.

After I had put away my lute and been sat down at the bar, the innkeeper introduced himself as Corpulus Vinius.

“Beautiful music,” he said, for at least the dozenth time. “Never heard anything like it. College doesn’t know what it’s missing.” He poured me a goblet of what I assumed was wine, though it didn’t smell like any wine I’d had before. I sniffed it cautiously.

“It’s spiced wine,” Sorex offered from next to his father. “Evette San makes it herself, some kind of secret recipe. It’s good. Solitude specialty.” He smiled at me shyly from under his lashes.

I took a sip, and made an appreciative noise. It was better than good, it was _marvellous_. I took another long draught. To Oblivion with being ladylike. I’d earned a good drink.

“Beautiful,” Corpulus said again. “Well, the College’s loss is my gain. Any night you like you’re welcome to play here. Room, board, and I can probably toss a few coins your way, too. More than a few, if you start to bring in more business for the inn.”

I flushed, a little embarrassed, but more than a little pleased. “That’s very kind of you, but won’t Lisette —”

“Oh, don’t worry your head about me,” Lisette herself said, slipping onto the barstool next to mine. “I appreciate the steady work here, but I’m more than happy for the occasional night off. Or more than occasional, if I’m honest with you. Play any night you like. I’ve still got the days. If I want them back, I’ll tell you.” I stumbled over my words trying to properly express my thanks, but she just patted me companionably on the arm. “Don’t worry your head about it,” she repeated. “You’ve got talent, and I’ve got friends and hobbies. It would be a shame to let either of those languish.” She then wandered off with her mug of mead, calling a cheery hello to one of said friends who had just appeared through the door.

“See,” Minette said, who had watched the entire exchange while leaning against the bar, “I told you she’s nice.”

“You did. Thank you, Minette. I think meeting you was probably the best thing that happened to me today.”

She rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Course it was. Welcome to Solitude, Miss Kirilee.”

And I finally felt that I was.


	2. Meeko

The next morning I woke to the sun on my lashes, and a disorienting feeling of stillness. It had been quite some time since I’d slept on land. I opened my eyes, and was met by the sight of a sparsely but elegantly furnished inn room: my room, for as long as I wanted it, Corpulus had said. A slow smile spread over my face. A new day, in a new city, with new possibilities.

As I washed and dressed I determinedly did not think about my failure of the previous day, instead forcing myself to think of all the things that had gone _right_. I’d found somewhere to stay. I’d found work, even if it only covered room and board for the time being. And I’d made friends. Over the course of the previous evening I had spent a fair amount of time both chatting with and watching the Vinius family, and I had determined that I liked them all very much.

_Think about that, Kirilee. Think about how lucky you were to run into such a friendly family on your very first day. Don’t think about the College. Or the smug, smarmy smile on that puffed-up elf’s face. Or …_

I pushed the errant thoughts away. I would _not_ let awful Viarmo spoil my first full day in my new home.

The common room was nearly empty when I descended from my room. There were no customers: Minette sat at a table under a window, a book propped up against a water-jug, while Corpulus was slicing a cured hunk of some kind of meat at the bar.

“Morning, Kirilee. Want some breakfast? Got some horker in this morning, finest quality.”

I sat down opposite him and regarded the fatty meat warily. Now that I was up close it smelled overpoweringly fishy.

“No, thanks. Just some tea, please.”

“Right you are then.” He flashed me a crooked smile then disappeared into the kitchen out the back, whistling merrily.

“Your father’s much more of a morning person than I am,” I remarked to Minette, who had abandoned her windowside seat to come sit next to me.

“No he’s not. He’s just happy about you.”

“What do you mean?”

She looked at me as though I were a halfwit. “Papa said you’re going to bring in lots of customers for the inn. Because you’re foreign, and pretty.”

“… And because I play well?” I added hopefully.

“Sure, I guess. I don’t think that’s as important, though.”

I deflated a little. “… Oh.”

Just then Corpulus returned with a steaming mug which smelled of wildflowers. “Here you are, Kirilee. Special blend of Angeline’s.” I took it and had a sip. It was very good.

“What’re you going to do today?” asked Minette. “Want to see my ale collection?”

“I’d love to, but I’m afraid I have to run an errand first. I promised my father I’d look in on an old —” I caught myself before I said ‘retainer’, “— on a family friend. Actually, Corpulus, I was hoping you might be able to help me? I only know roughly where he lives.” I pulled out my heavy vellum map — a parting gift from Father — and smoothed it out on the bar. “Father said he lives between Solitude and Morthal somewhere, but I’m not sure where that might be exactly … and it’s rather a lot of ground to cover. I think he mentioned it was near Frost River? But that’s not marked on my map.”

“Hmm, yes, that’s a little settlement just here,” Corpulus said, jabbing his finger at the intersection of a number of roads over what looked to be a tributary of the River Hjaal, to the southeast of Dragon Bridge. “What’s your friend’s name?”

“Um. Rolf, I think … or possible Radolf, or Rodolf …? He’s a Nord …”

Corpulus chuckled. “I’m afraid that doesn’t really narrow it down.”

“I haven’t seen him in years,” I said defensively, “and all these Nord names sound so similar. I’d recognise him if I saw him.”

“Well, I can’t help you, but you can either take a carriage or a boat to Frost River, and ask around there. They might have a better idea where you can find your mystery Nord.”

Corpulus drifted back into the kitchen while I finished my tea, and Minette returned to her reading. When I was done I rolled up my map and slipped it back into my pack. I nodded to Minette, who lifted a lazy hand from her book, and called a goodbye to Corpulus. I was already pulling the door shut behind me when I heard him hurrying back into the common room, saying, “Kirilee, wai—”

The door closed behind me. I was sure whatever it was could wait til I got back — I really did need to be off if I was to make it to Rolf-Rodolf-Ralof’s and back before nightfall. It was an annoying errand, but I _had_ promised Father.

It didn’t take me long to realise just what Corpulus had intended to warn me about, and to wish I had waited those few extra moments. No sooner had I stepped out onto the cobblestoned street than I noticed a huge crowd gathered in the square opposite the inn. Curious, I stepped forward. The people were all facing away from me, towards the opposite side of the square. I followed their gaze, and saw with horror that they were staring towards a raised stage, set against the city wall. The stage was occupied by a few scarlet-clad guards, a woman in elaborate Imperial armour reading from a long roll of parchment … and a man kneeling over a block, with another man — dressed all in black and silver leathers, and holding a huge, double-sided axe — looming over him.

It was an execution.

I froze. _What in Oblivion?_ I knew back home Father occasionally had to have the very worst kinds of criminals executed, but it was done quietly and privately, with dignity. What kind of a place was this, that they’d hold executions in public, in the open city square; a twisted parody of a play which even _children_ would attend?

I willed my legs to move, to take me away from the horrific spectacle, but I couldn’t lift them. I was paralysed with shock.

“… for your crime, that of high treason, against Solitude, her people, and the King …”

 _What?_ The thought drifted across the numb void. What was going on here?

A small girl tugged on a man’s trousers. “They can’t hurt uncle Roggvir. Tell him they didn’t do it.”

 _I need to get out of here._ Why couldn’t I move?

“Very well, Roggvir. Bow your head.”

The man in black lifted the axe high. Sunlight glinted off its blade.

I managed to tear my eyes away at the last second, but couldn’t avoid the dull _thud_ of the axe tearing through living flesh and sinking into wood. I felt sick. I was suddenly very glad I hadn’t had any breakfast.

I turned away, my eyes still tightly shut. I didn’t want to see what was now occupying that dais. Swallowing a few times to try and settle my rising bile, I hugged my arms to myself. I tried to tell myself to calm down — but how could I, after a man had been killed not a hundred paces from where I stood?

Suddenly I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Kirilee? What are you doing here?” It was Sorex.

“I — I was — I was just trying to —” My voice shook. I was very close to tears.

“Come with me.” He took me by the arm and led me back into the Skeever.

The next thing I knew, I was in front of the fire in the common room. It was a warm day, and the fire danced merrily, but I felt cold. I couldn’t comprehend what I’d just seen. Corpulus pushed another mug of wildflower tea into my hands.

“I’m sorry. I did try to warn you.”

I held the tea tightly, my fingers trembling. “What — what was all that about?”

Sorex answered. “That bastard Roggvir was a traitor. He deserved what he got.”

“Sorex!” Corpulus’ voice was hard. “Go out back. Unload that latest lot of deliveries.” Sorex grumbled, but acquiesced, and I his retreating footsteps echoed in the empty room. I was still staring into the fire.

“Sorry about that. Boy’s a bit … overzealous. You really don’t know?”

I shook my head. “I was on a ship for the past few weeks. We didn’t exactly get much news.”

Corpulus let out a slow breath. “Well, then. This will … come as something of a shock. High King Torygg was murdered, just a few weeks back.”

“ _What_?”

“Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm, did it. You know of him?” I nodded mutely, my eyes wide. “He challenged King Torygg to a duel for the throne. It’s some kind of Nord tradition — seems a bit backwards to me. But anyway, Torygg had no choice to accept … except that it wasn’t anything like a fair fight. Torygg was just a kid. No older than my younger boy, Felix. Just a kid, while Ulfric was a veteran of decades of fighting — and then the bastard cheated anyway. They didn’t even fight. Used some kind of old Nord magic and shouted the young king to pieces.” He shook his head, his eyes angry. “No, it was no honourable duel. It was murder, plain and simple. Roggvir, there, was the one to open the gate to let the kingslayer escape afterwards.”

I stared at Corpulus, my mouth hanging open. This … this was enormous news. Did Father know? He must, by now; Father had information networks that surely would have reported something of this magnitude.

A thought struck me. Elisif. The poor girl … she was only a year or two older than me, and had barely been married a handful of years. How must she be coping with not only losing her husband, but now having the mantle of his titles and responsibilities thrust upon her? She had only been minor nobility before marrying Torygg. She was unprepared for the role of High Queen — but wait, _was_ she the queen now? If Ulfric had killed Torygg in a duel for the throne? Only Corpulus had said Ulfric had escaped …

“But — who’s ruling now, then? Not Ulfric?”

“No. The bastard ran. It was his only choice — he’d have been tried and executed himself, otherwise. Solitude did, er … not take well to the way the whole thing went down. He disappeared back to Windhelm, where he’s been stirring up trouble ever since. He’s got a whole load of Nords backing him, bunch of idiots yelling ‘Skyrim is for the Nords’ at the top of their voices — call themselves the Stormcloaks. Plenty think he _should_ be High King. Of course, the Empire, as well as a good load of others, know it was murder and back Elisif for the throne. It’s a right old mess. The whole province is like a kettle about to boil over — the roads are getting more dangerous, prices are rising, folks are turning to banditry. There are whispers of civil war.”

I drew in a sharp breath. Perhaps I should have listened to my parents after all. I could not have chosen a worse time to come to Skyrim, it seemed.

But … here I was. And I would just have to deal with the province in whatever state it was in.

But even so … civil war …

A shudder ran through me. Corpulus must have noticed, because he said in a bracing voice, “Don’t worry about it too much. The Legion’s doing all it can to bring that bastard in. I heard whispers from some soldiers in here the other day about a plan to capture him — they might even have done it by now. I’m sure this will be over before it even really starts.”

I managed a weak smile. “… I hope so. Though I can’t say I relish the thought of another … another execution like that one.”

“It’s an ugly business for sure. Still, sometimes it’s necessary. But I can certainly understand it upsetting someone with a delicate constitution like your own.”

 _Delicate constitution?_ My mouth opened in outrage, but then I looked down at my hands, which were so pale I could have counted every one of my freckles, and swallowed my protests. If being unaccustomed to death meant I had a ‘delicate constitution’, then so be it. I had no intention of developing a strong one.

I pushed my empty mug into Corpulus’ hands. “Thank you for the tea, and the information. I … am ashamed to have arrived so ill-informed.” I stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“To Frost River.”

“Oh!” he said, eyebrows jerking upwards. “I’d have expected, after that, that you wouldn’t want to …”

I sniffed. “I made a promise. My constitution is not so delicate as all _that_.”

I strode back out into the summer sunshine and out through the gate. Despite my words to Corpulus, however, I felt my legs shaking a little and my face draining of colour as I passed by the now-empty square. I did not look to see whether the blood had yet been cleaned away.

* * *

By the time I’d reached the docks I felt substantially calmer, the everyday bustle of the city’s crowds doing much to settle my nerves. So I had seen death for the first time. So the king was dead. So civil war was brewing. I’d left Aldcroft because I wanted my life to be different — well, if the last twenty-four hours were anything to go by, it definitely would be. Certainly nobody else here seemed to be falling to pieces over it. I would just have to adapt. Hadn’t I wanted to prove I was strong, and could stand on my own two feet? Well, here was my chance.

Heartened, I handed over the fee for a ferry to Frost River with a smile, and settled into the small boat. This day could still turn out well. I would have a lovely visit with … Rolof, I was almost sure it was. I would pass on Father’s compliments and well-wishes. We would share some tea, and I would pat his dog. Afterwards I would come back to Solitude, play a lovely evening’s worth of music at the Winking Skeever, and be complimented heartily by the locals for my music. _Not_ my accent or my face or my figure. I trailed my fingers in the sparkling water, and watched the workers operating the sawmill on the Solitude bank. I _would_ have a good day.

“Here we are,” said the ferryman a few hours later. “Frost River. You have a nice day now, lass.”

I thanked him and climbed carefully out of the boat. Looking back the way we had come, Solitude was even more spectacular than it had been from at sea: I could see the whole patchwork lower city stretching up the hillside, as well as the upper city silhouetted against the clear blue of the sky. I waved at it, mostly so I could tell Minette I’d waved to her when I got back to the inn later.

I turned around to face the little village. Frost River was a pleasant little place — more steading than village, I thought, with only a few farms, the little jetty, and a carriage stop. I wondered whether it even had a store, or whether the inhabitants had to travel to Solitude or Morthal to do their shopping.

A farmer had stood up from his hoeing when I had disembarked, and shaded his eyes from the sun as I approached.

“Good morning,” I said, stepping carefully between his potato-plants. “I was wondering whether you could help me?”

“What do ye need, lass?” He leaned on his hoe, regarding me suspiciously. He was chewing something — tabac, perhaps.

“I’m looking for someone. An old family friend, who moved back to this area a few years ago from High Rock. His name’s Rolof, I think.”

“Ralduf?”

Bother! I knew I was close. “Yes, that’s him.”

“Aye, he lives a little ways out o’ the village, in the woods. Follow the road t’wards Morthal abou’ an hour, then head north. His hut’s near the edge o’ the swamp.”

“Thank you.”

He spat into the dirt. “Tain’t nothin’. Man likes to keep to hisself. Hannae seen him in a while. Tell him Jurt has eggs f’rim.” He leered at me suddenly, showing a mouthful of crooked teeth stained with chewing-tabac. “Dinnae get yer feet wet, lass.”

I hurried away, glancing back every few seconds over my shoulder at the farmer. He watched me until I was out of sight, leaning on his rake and chewing slowly.

Once I was past Frost River’s farms the road was soon enclosed in lush, rich forests. The rushing sound of the river was cut off, to be replaced by the singing and twittering of birds and the rustling of branches in the breeze. I gripped the straps of my pack as I walked and smiled at the forest around me. _Look at me now, Father,_ I thought, _a woman of the world! Finding my own way, asking directions from strangers … see, I’m perfectly capable of handling my_ own _business._ I spotted a sturdy-looking stick on the ground, about as long as I was tall, and picked it up to use as a walking-stick. I felt like a real adventurer.

After about an hour had passed I began to examine the forest on my left. I was starting to wish I’d asked for more specific instructions from the farmer — was there a path I was meant to follow? Or should I just strike out into the forest, and hope I blundered into Ralduf’s hut? I stared dubiously into the tightly-knit vegetation. I didn’t much fancy trying to push my way through it. My dress was sure to be ripped to bits, and didn’t have the coin to spare to be so cavalier about my clothing.

I was just starting to poke at the undergrowth with my walking-stick when I heard a sharp bark, followed by another. My heart started to pound, and I gripped my stick tightly with both hands — wolves didn’t bark, did they? Was it perhaps a wild dog, readying to attack? — but then the dog emerged from the underbrush a dozen feet further down the road, and my fear dissolved into relief.

“Meeko!”

The dog wagged his tail and bounded towards me. It was indeed Meeko, Ralduf’s dog. He dropped to the ground at my feet, rolling onto his back and displaying his belly, clearly hoping for a rub. I was more than happy to oblige him, and ran my hands vigorously through his fur.

“It’s so good to see you, boy! Do you remember me?”

Meeko barked and wriggled luxuriantly under my touch. I had last seen him as a gangly, awkward teenage-puppy, all long limbs and exuberant energy. He’d grown up into a powerful hound, though his personality seemed unchanged — and his thick, soft fur, I was pleased to see. I had always loved Meeko’s colouration. He was a rich russet red, with a white belly and socks, and a dark muzzle and saddle. I’d never seen another dog like him. Ralduf had always been very secretive about where he’d found the puppy he’d brought home one day.

Once Meeko was satisfied I’d given him enough attention he clambered to his feet and began trotting away. After a few yards he turned around and waited, tail waving lazily in the air.

“You’ll lead me home? Thank the Divines, I had no idea how I was going to find the place! All right boy, lead on.”

I followed Meeko down the road about a hundred feet, after which he turned sharply to the left down a hidden track. I’d never have found it on my own, and once again thanked whichever Divines might be listening that Meeko had happened to be roaming far enough from home to blunder into me. It suddenly struck me how odd that was — Meeko had always been very much a people-dog, when I had known him, rarely straying far from Ralduf. Perhaps he had grown more independent as he had matured?

After another half hour or so of walking through the forest I spotted the little hut. While I couldn’t have imagined living so far from civilisation myself, I had to admit I could understand the appeal. It was in a still glade, surrounded by beautiful, thick forests, wildflowers sprouting underfoot. Butterflies flapped through the air like living jewels. This was a peaceful, magical place, and I could see why Ralduf had chosen to retire here.

As soon as I stepped into the glade I realised something was wrong. It was too still. The vegetable patch was overgrown with weeds. Sacks of root vegetables had been roughly torn open, disgorging potatoes and carrots onto the grass, many of which looked like they’d been chewed. The door into the hut stood open.

Meeko had stopped beside me, and his tail was no longer wagging. He looked up at me and whined.

“What happened here, boy?”

Meeko led me into the little hut, his tail hanging between his legs. As soon as I stepped through the door I retched, and threw my arm up in front of my nose. There was a smell … sickly and cloying, like rotting fruit combined with rotting flesh. Even though I had never smelled anything like it before, I knew what it meant, and I knew what I would see even before my eyes fell on the bed.

Stomach heaving, I hurried outside. I slid onto the ground and leaned back against the wall of the hut. My skin felt clammy, and sweat beaded my forehead. I breathed heavily. My eyes were screwed shut, but I couldn’t banish the sight of what had once been Father’s favourite retainer, bloated and unrecognisable and covered in insects.

I felt a warm, furred weight — Meeko had rested his head in my lap. He was whining softly and piteously. I scratched him behind the ears.

“I’m so sorry. You poor thing. How long have you been here, all alone? I take it you were the one who got into those sacks.” I felt along his ribcage. I hadn’t noticed earlier, because of all the fur, but he was very thin.

Meeko climbed all the way onto my lap, pushing my legs flat. He must have weighed nearly as much as I did. I didn’t protest at his weight, however, and just pulled him close, burying my face in his thick fur.

Eventually I stood up. I needed to do … something, about the body. I thought of going back to Frost River to ask for help — but the thought of leering Jurt, and men like him, invading Ralduf’s peaceful forest sanctuary felt … wrong. I swallowed. There was only one thing I could do; only one thing which felt _right_ to do, no matter how much it made me want to run screaming.

I found a shovel in a shed behind the hut, and with Meeko’s help dug a hole as deep as I could beside a bed of wildflowers. After a few tries I managed to bundle Ralduf’s body into the sheets and blankets on which he had lain. I was relieved that the … seepage seemed to have been fairly minimal. He was very heavy, but I managed to drag him out to the hole I had dug and push him in. I kept apologising to the body for the unceremonious manner in which I was treating it — and every few minutes I had to dash quickly away and dry heave into a corner. By the time Ralduf was buried I felt more exhausted, ill, weak and wretched than I ever had in my life.

I stood over the mound, into which I’d pressed a few handfuls of flowers.

“Here lies Ralduf, a Nord brave and true.” My voice shook. “I’m sorry you died out here all alone, with nobody to realise you were sick except for your dog. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a proper burial, or proper funerary rites. I wish I could do — could have done — more for you. But I promise that I will remember you, and tell stories of your kindness and selflessness while you were with my family. And I promise I’ll take care of Meeko. He won’t ever be alone again. I promise.”

I knelt and rested a palm against the freshly-turned earth. A few tears splashed onto the soil. After a few moments I stood up again, the action costing me far more effort than it should have.

“Come on, Meeko,” I said wearily. “Let’s go home.


	3. The Price of a Gown

I didn’t make it back to Solitude until very late at night. I had spent several hours at Ralduf’s hut, and had left it so drained both physically and emotionally that it had taken what felt like hours to trudge all the way back to Frost River.

The sun was setting into the Druadach Mountains by the time we arrived at the village’s small jetty. I was unsurprised to see no boats — there was hardly likely to be much river traffic to and from such a small settlement — so instead Meeko and I waited at the village’s carriage stop as dusk gathered around us, a small Candlelight hovering above my head. Meeko seemed fascinated by the magical light, so I made a mental note to pull it down and bob it along the ground sometime, in case he might like to chase it. At that moment, however, I was far too tired to attempt the trick.

“You know, Meeko,” I said after we’d been waiting for a solid hour, “I should probably learn those Mark and Recall spells Master Lorent told me about. He was my magic tutor back home. They’d let me teleport straight back to Solitude … though I wonder whether they’d work on you? I certainly couldn’t leave you behind.” I ruffled the fur around his neck, and his tongue lolled happily. “Actually, it would probably make my life here a fair bit easier if I devoted a bit more time to my magic in general. There’s a spell to catch fish, you know — do you like fish?” I shook my head. “Stupid Kirilee, he’s just a dog. He can’t actually understand you.”

Meeko looked up at me, cocking his head, and barked once.

“See? Even Meeko’s telling you you’re being stupid.” I was so exhausted I knew I was on the point of delirium, but couldn’t find the strength to care.

Just then Meeko’s ears pricked, and he looked down the road towards Morthal. Soon after I heard it too — the clip-clopping of approaching hooves, as well as the slight squeaking of a poorly-oiled carriage wheel. It was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. I rested a hand on Meeko’s neck again. “Thank the Divines, Meeko. Finally.”

Afterwards I barely remembered anything of the carriage ride back to Solitude, except that the driver had been very kind, and had insisted on escorting me through the lower city as far as the gates. (“I’m done for the night anyway, and I couldn’ live wi’ meself if a nice young thing like you were tae come tae any harm so late at night.”) I reckoned it was probably after midnight by the time I stumbled through the door of the Winking Skeever, where I nearly collapsed to the floor forthwith. Sorex immediately rushed forward, but Meeko had already caught me with his broad back, and for a while my whole mind was consumed with how nice his fur felt, and how much I’d like to just fall asleep on it right there and then. After a while I realised I was muttering these thoughts out loud to a very concerned-looking Corpulus and Sorex, who were gently escorting me back to my room.

“Kirilee. Can you hear me, Kirilee? I said, are you all right?” Corpulus’ voice sounded as though it were coming from very far away.

“‘Malright,” I mumbled. “Tired.”

“Whose is the dog?”

“That’s Meeko. Mine now.”

“Do you want him in your room?”

I noticed a bed was in front of me, and collapsed into it fully clothed. I was vaguely aware that I was filthy and ought to wash before getting into bed or I would dirty the covers, but it seemed far too insignificant and unpleasant a thought to acknowledge.

“Yes.”

Darkness claimed me.

* * *

The next morning I woke in the exact same position as when I’d fallen onto the bed, only with a snoring Meeko curled beside me. By the quality of the sunlight flooding the room it was very late. I groaned and rolled over. Everything hurt. Outside of horseriding I hadn’t done as much physical activity in my whole _life_ as I had the previous day. I’d expected my arms to be sore from all the shovelling and dragging, but why was everything else sore as well? Even my stomach muscles cried out in pain as I sat up and blinked blearily against the sunlight. At least my exhaustion had been so complete that I hadn’t dreamed. I couldn’t imagine my dreams would have been pleasant ones, after the day I’d had.

“Good morning, Meeko,” I said, running my fingers through his thick fur. “Sleep well?”

Meeko opened one eye, whoofed softly, then shut it again.

“There’s probably breakfast downstairs …” His ears pricked, but his eyes remained shut. “Maybe even sausages …?”

Meeko was suddenly fully awake, bounding off the bed and wagging his tail energetically. I laughed. It would have been impossible not to. I’d never had a dog before — we were more a cat family — but I had always secretly longed for one … though I’d imagined something like a cute little terrier, rather than this huge hunting dog whose shoulders were level with my hips.

“I need to feed you up, poor boy. You’re so thin.” Meeko’s tail wagged even harder. My own stomach growled and I clutched at it, grimacing a little. I was starving too. We’d managed to scrounge a little dinner in Frost River while waiting for the carriage, but other than that I hadn’t eaten the whole previous day.

“But first, a bath. We both need one very badly.”

Half an hour later Meeko and I were both tucking into enormous breakfasts which Corpulus had conjured seemingly from nowhere. Sorex was out picking up deliveries, but Minette and Corpulus had both been waiting anxiously for me to come down. All three of them had been very worried about me, apparently.

“We’ve been hearing more and more reports of bandits on the roads,” Corpulus had said as he placed a plate heaped with eggs, sausages and bread in front of me. “I didn’t think you were likely to run into trouble so close to Solitude, but then it was getting later and later and you still weren’t back …”

Over breakfast I related to them both the story of my … I hesitated to call it an _adventure_ , not when it had had such a tragic outcome.

“It’s not _that_ tragic. Not when it ends with you getting a dog.” Minette had been very taken with Meeko from the moment she had set eyes on him, and was now feeding him extra bits of sausage whenever Corpulus’ back was turned.

I smiled at Meeko. “There is that. I’m just glad I found him in time. If only …”

“Now, none of that,” Corpulus said. “Never any point to ‘if only’. You deal with the world as it is, and you keep looking forward. It’s advice that’s always served us well.”

I nodded, my mouth full of egg. It was good advice, and I tried to follow it as the day progressed. Still, I found it hard to concentrate on my lute practice with flashes of the previous day constantly arriving uninvited into my thoughts, and soon gave up on it as a bad job. I put my lute down, sighing, and looked over to Meeko, who was napping in the corner.

“Want to go for a walk?”

I took Meeko up to the walls, which I had longed to explore since I had first set foot in the upper city. The view was just as breathtaking as I had expected. I spent long minutes leaning on the battlements gazing out into the ocean or across the river, ignoring Meeko tugging at my dress to try and get me to hurry up and actually _walk_.

Eventually my eyes fell on the dress-shop opposite the inn which had so caught my attention on entering the city. I considered it for a long moment. Even from up on the walls I could see the splashes of colour in the window displays.

Yes, I decided suddenly, heading towards one of the many sets of stairs down off the walls; a bit of window-shopping was _exactly_ what I needed to take my mind off things.

* * *

A small silver bell gave a melodious tinkle when I pushed open the door to Radiant Raiment. “Yes?” said a haughty-looking Altmer woman, glancing up from the counter.

“Hello,” I said, both excited and nervous. “If you don’t mind, I was hoping just to have a bit of a browse.”

“Make sure the dog stays in the entryway,” she drawled.

I ordered Meeko to stay, hoping he would actually heed my command — so far he seemed to more or less do whatever he wanted — and stepped into the shop proper. At first I just stood in place and let my eyes rove around the room. Moment by moment my delight mounted. This shop was _wonderful_. I hadn’t been sure what to expect of a dress-shop in Skyrim, but the woman who ran this store clearly kept abreast of the latest fashions, and worked high quality fabrics with exquisite craftsmanship. No, not woman — women, I realised after about ten minutes, when a second, taller woman entered from a back room and engaged the one behind the counter in conversation. They looked similar enough that I thought they might be related, but most Altmer had always seemed rather similar to my eyes.

I let my fingers trail down the skirt of a gorgeous sky-blue ballgown in crisp silk taffeta. “This is beautifully styled,” I mused aloud. “I haven’t seen petal sleeves paired with a neckline this deep before. It creates such a bold effect, especially with so few petticoats in the skirt.”

The taller of the two women came to stand by my side. “You have an interest in fashion?”

Remembering I was dressed only in an increasingly-shabby cotton dress, I blushed, then felt a prickle of fear — would she ask me to leave, when it came out that I couldn’t afford anything? Or, worse, start asking difficult questions about why a young woman in a cheap cotton dress knew about fabrics, necklines and fashionable cuts?

“Er … yes, I do,” I said, unsure how to proceed. “I know I don’t exactly look it at the moment. And I’m also afraid I’m only able to window-shop at present. … But I must say, your workmanship is extraordinarily fine, and I look forward to the day when I can purchase one of your gowns.” My blush deepened.

The two women exchanged an unreadable look. After they broke off the one next to me held out a hand, saying, “Welcome to Radiant Raiment. My name is Taarie.”

I took her hand, noting the seamstress’ callouses. “Kirilee. A pleasure.”

“My sister there is called Endarie,” she said, nodding towards the counter. “I have … a proposition, if you don’t mind. You may be exactly what we’ve been looking for.”

“I’d be happy to assist in any way I can,” I said cautiously.

“Wonderful. You see, we’ve got a new line of gowns we’re hoping the Jarl will place an order for. They’re a little … different than her usual style, however, so we want her to see one in action, so to speak. We’d like you to model one of the gowns for us. Just wear it to the Blue Palace, request an audience with Elisif, give her a little twirl and tell her it’s our autumn line. We’ll pay you for your trouble, and you can keep the gown, too — I doubt there are many others in the city small enough to buy one once it’s been tailored for you.”

I blinked at her. It was an extraordinarily generous offer. From what I had seen of the gowns on display they were worth far more than a simple modelling excursion would warrant — and I knew for a fact that there were plenty of tricks for taking in a gown which would allow it to be later let out again. Besides which, I doubted anyone who so casually referred to the Jarl of Solitude and future High Queen of Skyrim by her first name even _needed_ to enlist the help of a nobody off the streets.

Why were they being so nice to me? Did they suspect I was more than I seemed? Had they taken pity on me? Was there some hidden agenda here which had flown over my head? Or were they just … kind?

It was a risk, of course: Elisif and I hadn’t seen each other since we were both children, but there was still a chance she would recognise me. I thought of turning the offer down, generous as it was … but then Endarie brought out the gown, and all thoughts fled my mind except that I wanted that dress. I _needed_ it. It was a sleeveless, corseted gown of red silk, partially overlaid with a black floral lace and tasteful cloth-of-gold accents. The skirt was petticoated but not too severely, and the corset was of a type I had never seen before. It was wonderful. If the blue gown had been bold, this one was striking.

Taarie was smiling indulgently, clearly having noticed the way my eyes had widened. “Yes, it’s good, isn’t it? I’m rather proud of the design. So, is that a yes?”

“Yes. Definitely. Yes,” I said, my eyes still fixed on the gown.

Half an hour later I left Radiant Raiment, stepping carefully and lifting my skirts so they wouldn’t trail on the ground. They weren’t too long — the sisters had quickly and expertly tailored the gown so that it fit me like a dream — but skirts designed to brush the floor of a ballroom would quickly wear out if left to drag on cobblestones. I had no intention of letting _any_ harm befall this gown.

I couldn’t help standing up straighter and falling naturally into the courtly glide I had become used to adopting while wearing garments such as this one. Divines, had I missed wearing tailored silks! The sisters had nodded appreciatively when I had slipped into the gown, remarking how much it suited me, though lamenting that I didn’t have more curves to fill it out. I had just shrugged uncomfortably. I had never developed the womanly curves Mother had promised would come in time, but in a gown like this I felt beautiful all the same.

I drew nervous as I grew closer to the Blue Palace. This was starting to seem like a hopelessly foolish idea. Was I really risking my identity being uncovered on only my third day in Skyrim, just for the sake of a pretty dress? Dressed like this I certainly looked as much like myself as I ever would … well, never mind. I was here now. I ordered Meeko to stay in the palace’s garden, and swept up to the entrance.

“State your business,” said the bored-looking porter inside the entrance hall.

“I was sent by the Radiant Raiment sisters. They wish for El— Jarl Elisif to see their latest design.”

“Very well. Through the hall and up the stairs. The Jarl will see you when she has time.” I dropped into a swift curtsey and followed his directions to Jarl Elisif’s audience-chamber.

As I glided through the hallways I had to fight the urge to linger and examine the palace more closely. It was truly beautiful. Nothing on the palace in Daggerfall, of course, but it was at least as luxurious and ornamented as Camlorn’s or Evermore’s. The palace had also been filled with art — paintings and frescoes covered the walls, and statues stood in nearly every available corner — and I thought I recognised Elisif’s touch. She had always loved the arts, and as a child had aspired to paint. I wondered whether she still had the opportunity, now that she ruled Solitude? Probably not, I thought ruefully. It was one reason I wasn’t looking forward to the day I myself would inherit Father’s rule.

Elisif held court in an airy, well-lit hall. Her artistic preferences held here, too: the dome above her head had been painted with frescoes, and recently, based on how fresh and crisp the paints looked. I was waved towards a seat along the side of the room where I waited my turn while others sought an audience with the Jarl. I examined her from beneath my lashes. She had flowered into a beautiful and regal woman — a queen — but at present she hardly looked it. The recent loss of her husband was an undeniable millstone around her neck, and even careful application of makeup and powders couldn’t disguise her red eyes and haunted gaze. I felt desperately sorry for her.

An hour passed of listening to the usual sort of petty grievances, Elisif looking more and more drawn and wan, before I was called forward. I dropped into a low and formal curtsey, and kept my face as low as I dared while Elisif asked what I required.

“I was sent by Taarie and Endarie of Radiant Raiment, my Jarl. They asked me to model their autumn line for you.” I held out the skirt with one hand, and slowly rotated on the spot. “Do you like it?”

Hardly daring to breathe, I waited, eyes downcast. But when she spoke there was no recognition in her voice, only tired resignation.

“Yes, it’s lovely. Very fetching. Let the sisters know I’ll be placing an order for a few gowns quite soon.”

I breathed easily again, and when I left the palace after another curtsey my heart felt light as air. I had done it. The person in Skyrim most likely to recognise me, hadn’t. And very soon I would own the first piece towards my new wardrobe!

Taarie seemed pleased but unsurprised when I passed on Elisif’s message. Her smile was all too knowing, almost a smirk, as she helped me out of the gown again. “You’ve done us a great service, dear. I’ll pack this up for you.”

Endarie brought out my old dress. “I’ve patched up the holes for you, and taken it in so it’ll fit a bit better. I had the time, and you know what they say about idle hands,” she said in response to my look of disbelief.

“I don’t know how I can thank you,” I said. I felt completely overwhelmed.

“Just remember us next time you’re after a new gown, dear. And recommend us to your friends.”

“Thank you. I will. Thank you.” I dropped them just as low a curtsey as I had for Elisif, and felt tears prickling in the corners of my eyes as the tinkling bell was cut off by the door closing behind me.

That evening, as I performed at the Winking Skeever in my glorious new gown, I couldn’t help but think: yes, there was death and disappointment in this province. My time here would undoubtedly be harder than I’d expected. But perhaps … perhaps not all of the surprises were destined to be unpleasant ones.


	4. The Roads of Skyrim

The looming civil war and my recent first encounters with the horrors of death weighed heavily on my mind over the next few days, but were on the whole outweighed by the joys of my budding new life in Solitude. I found myself settling into a comfortable routine. My days were spent idly practicing, chatting with the Viniuses and the Altmer sisters and exploring the city with Meeko. Both Corpulus and Endarie had started entrusting me with little delivery jobs around Solitude, and so I quickly found myself growing familiar with the stately streets, grand buildings and lofty walls and walkways of the city in the sky — or the upper part of it, anyway. Most of Radiant Raiment’s clientele were residents of the upper city, and Corpulus usually sent Sorex to pick up deliveries from the docks and butchers, so I rarely ventured into the dirtier, busier lower city. I didn’t mind. The beautiful upper city was where I belonged. I always gave the College a wide berth, however — it was too painful to see the students filing in and out, chatting companionably, and knowing I should be among them but wasn’t. Occasionally I saw the various Masters around the city, whom I soon learned to recognise on sight, but I never had the courage to approach any of them after my first disastrous encounter with Headmaster Viarmo.

My evenings, of course, were spent at the Skeever. It was hard to tell for sure, when my primary role was to be part of the background atmosphere, but I thought the inn’s audiences seemed appreciative of my ‘fancy foreign music’ — and not just because of my face. It was certainly a big change from Lisette’s playing. During the day I often sat in the inn, both for the company and the music, and was rather startled to realise that Lisette’s performing-repertoire consisted only of the same handful of tavern songs, plus a few short, simple works for lute and flute. Really? _This_ was the standard of the resident bard in one of Solitude’s best inns? She was a fair musician, but no better than that: her voice was lusty and rich but quite regularly out of tune, and back in High Rock she’d have been counted a middling lute and flute player at best. But perhaps in Skyrim musical skill wasn’t the main attribute sought in a tavern bard … I remembered Minette’s comment about my being ‘foreign and pretty’ and scowled. Lisette was certainly attractive.

One afternoon, about a week after I had arrived in Solitude, I was comfortably curled up in Minette’s favourite windowside seat in the inn. I had a book open in front of me: a spell tome, which I had bought with some of the extra coin I’d been earning running deliveries. After a mere half hour my brain was tied up in knots, however — it had been a very long time since I’d devoted any serious time to studying magic — and so I was very glad of the excuse to look up from the pages of forms when I heard the door open.

I had to stifle a gasp. It was Pantea Ateia, the College’s Dean of Flute and Voice. She was a tall, stately Imperial woman, whose beaky nose and piercing eyes reminded me of a hawk. I lifted my spell tome from the table and buried my face behind it, hoping my reddening forehead peeking over the top wasn’t too obvious. What on Nirn was she doing here? My heart leapt for a moment — had she perhaps come looking for me, to rectify Headmaster Viarmo’s mistake in not letting me audition? — but then I overheard her conversation with Corpulus and my tiny bubble of hope burst again. Apparently she occasionally came by of an afternoon to perform.

Still, I thought, quashing my rising disappointment, it was a wonderful opportunity for me to hear her sing. Everyone I had spoken to seemed to consider Pantea Ateia the best vocalist in the province. So I put away my spell tome, and instead settled in to listen with a fresh goblet of spiced wine.

Within five minutes my world had narrowed to just Pantea Ateia and her voice.

Her voice … her voice was a late afternoon sunbeam striking a crystal goblet of rich yellow wine. It was a mother’s smile to her young child. It was a field of ripe golden wheat, shimmering in the breeze. I was enraptured. I had rarely heard anyone sing like Pantea Ateia — the depth, clarity and control of her voice rivalled even the best vocalists I had heard back home. For the next hour and a half I stared at her, spellbound, my wine sitting forgotten on the table. She truly was a master. Her singing was so beautiful it made me want to weep.

After far too short a time Master Ateia took a bow, and received far too tepid a round of applause for my liking. What was wrong with these people? Couldn’t they tell they were in the presence of a _master_? I clapped as loudly as I could to make up for it, shooting outraged glances around the room, then realised Master Ateia was now staring at _me_ , wry amusement on her face. Blushing furiously, I dropped back down into my seat. That was … not exactly the first impression I had wanted to give my hopefully-future-teacher. I took a deep draught of wine, my cheeks flaming.

And as I played my own set, later that evening — both delighted and nervous that Master Ateia had decided to stick around, and was watching my performance with mild interest — I realised suddenly: what on Nirn was wrong with _me_? Why was I spending my days in idle lassitude, amusing myself with walks and chatter, when my real goal ought to be winning the tutelage of Pantea Ateia as soon as humanly possible? Divines, I could only imagine the skill of the College’s lute master … But in any case, I wasn’t here in Skyrim to be a delivery-girl. I was here to be _famous_. To earn my place as a renowned musician. And in all the fun of settling into my new city I had almost forgotten that in order to be taken seriously enough at the College to be admitted I would need to start growing my name — which meant I probably needed to start visiting the rest of the province too, rather than spending every night in the same inn, playing for the same people.

So it was that the next morning found Meeko and I bouncing in the back of a carriage, bound for the city of Whiterun. Aside from my own pack and lute-case I also had two bulky paper-wrapped parcels on the seat beside me: one bound for Whiterun, the other for Windhelm, which I would visit next. “We could pay a courier, of course,” Endarie had said, “but we’d far rather send these garments with someone we can _trust_ will take care of them.” She had given me a bulging purse of coins for the job, which I’d immediately handed back in return for a day-wear outfit she and Taarie had promised would be ready on my return. I could hardly wait. I was sick to death of this ugly cotton dress.

I pulled a stray thread from the sleeve of the offending garment and used it to tie a little tuft of fur on the top of Meeko’s head into a tiny tail.

“Look at you, Meeko, you’re so handsome!” I laughed. Meeko barked and wagged his tail. A suspicion had been growing within me that he understood far more of my meaning than I had initially thought. Were all dogs this smart?

“What was that?” called the carriage driver over his shoulder.

“Oh, nothing. Sorry. I was talking to my dog.”

“Nae problem.” We lapsed into silence once more, and I turned my attention to the scenery outside the carriage. First Dragon Bridge then Frost River had passed by already, and we were now headed south by the bank of the river which cut through the village. The land around us was wild and untamed, but beautiful, with wildflowers peeking through the grass and the sun glinting off the swift-flowing water. We were coming up to a river crossing, and I could see that on the other side of the river the land rose steeply — to the Whiterun plains, if I remembered my geography correctly. But wait … what was that blocking the road at the crossing?

“What in Oblivion’s going on here?” I heard the carriage driver mutter. A hastily-constructed gate was set across the road, accompanied the beginnings of construction on either side. A number of hard-looking men and women, all heavily armed, were working with tools, but at the approach of our carriage all stood from their building and ringed the carriage, loosening weapons in their holsters. I shrank back in my seat. Meeko growled under his breath, a low rumble I could feel through his ribcage pressed against my legs.

“What’s all this then?” yelled the driver.

“Toll road,” leered the nearest man nastily. He held an enormous battleaxe in both hands. “Toss us … lessay, fifty septims for the privilege of using this ‘ere crossing an’ you can be on your merry way.”

“Toll road!” The driver was outraged. “There ain’t never been a toll here afore! On whose authority?”

“On the _authority_ of this ‘ere lady,” the man said, stroking the edge of his axe lovingly. “And that of my associates, an’ their blades.”

“This is daylight robbery!”

“Come on, be reasonable,” the man crooned. “We’re doin’ you a service, making sure none of them riff-raff can pass through ‘ere. We’re keepin’ the roads _safe_. Why, pay us five hunned, and we’ll even give you a liddle pass, lets you come an’ go as much as you like for a whole month. Bargain!”

The driver glared at the leering man, but what could he do? We were outnumbered and outmatched, and he had no choice but to pass through to earn his living. He dropped a handful of coins unceremoniously onto the ground, and we were allowed to pass through the gate. The carriage driver’s face was a thundercloud.

“What was all that about?” I asked once we were out of earshot.

“Bandits. Or little better than. The nerve o’ them! Cheating a man out o’ his honest pay!”

“Won’t — won’t there be some guards along, to clear them out?”

“I doubt it, lass. The cities are all pulling their guards in close. A place as out o’ the way as this won’t have any patrols any time soon, I’d wager — and I doubt any of the jarls will be able to spare the troops to send if’n I report it. Nae, I think us travellers will just have to live with it for a time.”

I was aghast. “But — why?”

He twisted around to look me directly in the eye. “Ain’t you heard, lass? Ulfric Stormcloak was captured, then escaped. Rumours are he summoned a gurt black _dragon_ to interrupt the execution. Helgen’s been burnt t’the ground. The Empire’s in a frenzy, and all o’ Skyrim’s losing its mind. Stormcloaks’re poppin’ up everywhere like weeds. Civil war’s more’n just a whisper on the wind now, lass.”

Waves of shock rolled through me from toes to scalp as I stared blankly into space. Ulfric Stormcloak, caught, then escaped? Helgen burned down? A _dragon_? That last, at least, was obvious rubbish — perhaps some of his liberators had merely been wielding fire — but the rest I could not dismiss so easily. I ran my fingers absentmindedly through Meeko’s fur, feeling cold. What would happen now? Would Skyrim be flung headfirst into conflict? The roads were already clearly seeing the effect — would the cities soon become unsafe too? Would I be _forced_ to return home?

Even through my worry I felt a strong flicker of outrage, however. Civil unrest or no, bandits occupying a main trade route and extorting ‘tolls’ out of honest travellers would _never_ be heard of at home. Growing up, Father had impressed upon me again and again that the main responsibility — nay, _purpose_ — of the nobility was to protect and serve the common man. These jarls had no business calling themselves rulers if they wouldn’t fulfil that most basic function. Who cared if this area was far from a capital? They still claimed it as their land, and therefore had just as much a responsibility to maintain and police it as their cosy cities.

I sat with my arms crossed, fuming, the entire rest of the trip to Whiterun, too angry and indignant to even pay any mind to the incredible scenery through which we were passing. It was only when I disembarked outside Whiterun city, the sun just dipping below the horizon, that I could admit to myself: the anger was really only a veneer. A diversion my mind had conjured to distract me from how very, very shaken I was by the encounter at the river crossing, and my fear at how many similar — or worse — encounters I would have to endure if I stayed in this lawless province for any length of time.

* * *

The city of Whiterun did much to take my mind off my troubles. It was a warm, friendly city with warm, friendly people; the architectural oddity of its namesake white bricks barely registering next to the overwhelming sense of _welcome_ I felt. In fact, as we walked through the marketplace in the gathering dusk I was reminded so strongly of Aldcroft that I felt my first pang of homesickness.

“This is a nice place, isn’t it, boy?” I said to Meeko, staring around me at the dark shopfronts. While everything had a far more provincial cast than Solitude, I could tell that this was still a wealthy city. Much of the woodwork gracing the architecture had been ornamented with intricate carvings, and everything was clean, tidy and well-maintained.

“We like it well enough,” came an amused voice from behind me. I spun around, blushing, to see a woman standing behind a greengrocer’s stall whom I hadn’t noticed in the disappearing light. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. Do you need some help with those?”

I had indeed been struggling with all my baggage, and gratefully accepted the woman’s help to carry the parcels from Radiant Raiment the rest of the way to the inn.

“This is the Bannered Mare,” the woman said finally. She had introduced herself as Carlotta. “Over there behind the counter is Hulda — she’ll take good care of you. She’ll be thrilled to have a visiting musician in the inn for the night.”

“Oh — does the inn not have a resident bard?”

Carlotta’s eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips. “Oh, there’s a bard all right. Name of Mikael. Let me give you a word of warning: the man’s a notorious womaniser. He’s begging for a dagger up his throat. Now, I won’t judge if you’re into that sort of thing, but if you’re not, stay on your guard. He won’t be able to resist a foreign musician. Especially not a redhead.”

I thanked her fervently and bid her farewell. Once she had left I took the time to properly admire the inn into which I’d just stepped. It was _beautiful_. I’d never say it to Corpulus, of course, but I thought I perhaps fancied the Bannered Mare even more than the Skeever. It had the same open design, with half the first floor removed to open up the ceiling of the common room, but while the Winking Skeever felt lofty and airy the Bannered Mare was warm, cosy and intimate. A huge open hearth occupied the centre of the room, and the same carved woodwork that I’d seen outside dominated here, too; the polished wood draped tastefully in all manner of plush fabrics.

After I’d had my fill of gawking I paced over to the counter, against which a tall, rather tired-looking woman with long auburn hair was leaning. I noticed with a small grin that her eyes were shut — she’d been dozing against the bar, and startled awake when I greeted her.

“Oh! Hello, there. I’m dreadfully sorry. It’s been a very long day. How can I help you?”

I introduced myself as a visiting bard, and handed over the letter of recommendation Corpulus had written for me. The innkeeper — Hulda — gave the letter an approving nod then handed it back.

“Yes, lovely! It’s a pleasure to have you here, Miss … Kirilee, was it?”

“That’s right.”

“What an unusual name. Well, like I said, I’d be pleased to have you perform for us tonight. How does room, board, and … say, a hundred septims sound?”

“That will do just fine, ma’am.” It wasn’t much — perhaps only enough to cover my carriage fares — but I knew I couldn’t expect to be paid much as a just-starting-out nobody. The coin hadn’t been the point of this trip, in any case.

We negotiated the details of my performance and meals, after which Hulda showed me to my room for the night. I dropped everything I was carrying onto the bed and shook my arms out. They had gotten _tired_. After a few moments I then grimaced, sighed, and picked one of the two parcels from Endarie back up. I still had to deliver it and be back, washed and dressed in time to perform in an hour.

“Come on, Meeko,” I said wearily, “let’s go for a walk.”

* * *

I loved performing at the Bannered Mare. The acoustics were wonderful, the atmosphere warm and welcoming, and the people even more so. Far more of the patrons than in Solitude actually stopped their conversations to _listen_ , something I had begun to despair of ever happening again. It seemed that not all of Skyrim’s inhabitants viewed music as only a background accompaniment to their meals and conversations — I supposed that in a city not as overrun by bards and aspiring bards as Solitude good music was perhaps not quite so commonplace.

It might also have had something to do with the absence of the Bannered Mare’s usual bard. Carlotta’s scathing estimation of Mikael had been spot on, and while I played I watched him from the corner of my eye moving around the room, trying to chat up every young, attractive woman in turn. He had been thrilled to be given the night off, rubbing his hands delightedly at the prospect of having a whole evening to ‘work his magic’. I had nearly gagged at the eagerness in his voice. What a pig.

As I finished my second set I noticed said pig had managed to corner Carlotta herself. She was backed right up against a wall, Mikael leaning over her possessively. Hot spots of anger flared in my cheeks. I strode over towards them.

“… come, now, my sweet,” he was purring, “I know you want me. I’ve seen it in your eyes.”

“I’ve told you again and again, Mikael, I’m not interested.”

“Take me home with you. I’ve got the whole night free — just imagine how much fun we could get up to before dawn. Why, the things —”

“Hey!” I snapped. Mikael turned away from Carlotta to be confronted by a bristling young woman a foot shorter than him and less than half his weight, but glaring so fiercely that he actually took a step backwards. I wouldn’t have been surprised if my eyes were shooting sparks.

“You’re interrupting something here. Leave us be.”

“Didn’t you hear her? She said no. Leave _her_ be.”

Mikael smiled at me indulgently. “Darling, there’s no need to be jealous. There’s plenty of me to go round. Why, perhaps both of you might like to accompany me up—”

I was angrier than I’d ever been in my life. I’d felt so frustrated and powerless all day, unable to do anything about the bandits at the river crossing — well, here was a bully I _could_ do something about, and I felt all my pent-up frustration and anger come rushing out.

_SMACK_

Mikael stared at me, touching his cheek, which even in the flickering firelight I could see was starting to redden. “What — what did you — how —”

He seemed more shocked than hurt. I’d hit him as hard as I could … but that probably wasn’t particularly hard, I thought ruefully. And I’d had to reach up quite a long way.

Suddenly I felt very ashamed. What would my parents think of me, turning to oafish physical confrontation to try and solve a problem, rather than using words as weapons, as I’d been trained?

… On the other hand, I couldn’t deny that it had felt _very_ good.

Mikael was still staring at me, dumbstruck. Carlotta seemed to be trying not to laugh. I noticed the whole room had gone silent.

“… Message received, loud and clear,” he muttered at last, sounding abashed. “… Sorry. And to you too, Carlotta. I’ll, ah … leave you ladies be.” He hurried away into the night, and the background hum of chatter gradually resumed.

Carlotta turned to me, grinning broadly. “So _that’s_ the fabled Breton diplomacy I’ve heard so much about.” I returned her smile sheepishly. “Come on, girl, after that display I need to buy you a drink. Me and half the inn, I’d expect.”

I let her lead me over to where Hulda was watching us approach, beady-eyed. A pit formed in my stomach. Oh, no. I had just hit her resident bard. Was she about to throw me out? Had I already burned a bridge in this place I’d only just fallen in love with?

Hulda’s face split into a smile, then she laughed, long and loud and throaty. She slid a bottle of alto across the bar. “Here, dear. On the house. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that myself.”

* * *

The next morning I awoke with a thumping headache, which had definitely not been improved by a number of drunk Nords treating my room as a thoroughfare through the early hours of the morning.

“Sorry, dear,” Hulda smiled as she unlocked the bathing room for me. “Most Nords aren’t much for privacy. You’ll get used to it.”

 _I doubt that very much,_ I thought an hour later on my way down to the carriage. I had startled half the inn awake with an almighty shriek when a Nord couple had wandered nonchalantly into the bathing room while I was mid-bath. My cheeks were still burning.

“What are you laughing at?” I said to Meeko. “You’ve got fur. You’re _never_ naked. You wouldn’t understand.” Meeko just wagged his tail.

With a little searching I found a carriage heading northeast to Windhelm, and paid the driver the fare he asked. “Sure yer dressed warm enough?” he said, looking me up and down. “Windhelm’s mighty cold, lass.”

I sniffed and lifted my chin. “Thank you for your concern, but I’ll be quite all right. I can keep myself warm with magic.”

“Ah. One o’ those,” the driver said, suddenly a bit nervous. “Well, er … just don’t be burnin’ the carriage down round our ears, hear me?”

After assuring him I would not, I clambered into the back of the carriage. Nords, honestly. How could they be so nervous about perfectly normal things like magic, while not thinking twice about disrobing in front of total strangers? What a bizarre people.

As we trundled through the countryside I paid much closer attention than I had the previous day on my approach to the city. We were heading away from the Whiterun tundra, but the carriage took a long, gently rising path parallel to the base of a towering mountain range to the east which gave me a spectacular view over the rolling grasslands. It was stunningly beautiful: a multicolour carpet of grasses and wildflowers, dotted with little moving blobs that I assumed must have been elk — or deer, possibly; I had never learned to tell the difference.

Not long after the tundra had disappeared from view, to be replaced by deep green pine forests, we passed through another dubiously-legal ‘toll point’. The carriage driver scowled, but didn’t argue. I gathered he had passed through this particular choke-point before. 

“Aye,” he said angrily, when I asked whether this was a recent occurrence. “Stormcloaks givin’ folk all the wrong ideas. Plenty figure: well, if the Hold guards and the Legion ain’t able to stamp out the Stormcloaks, even when they’re trying so hard, what’re the chances they’ll bother tryin’a stop a few men and women skimming a bit off the top? Bloody disgusting.” He seemed to want to keep ranting, but restrained himself, for which I was grateful. I was starting to get a little twist of fear every time the war or the state of the roads was brought up. What if one day one of my carriages was actually _attacked_? Could things deteriorate to that point? A scant week ago I would have scoffed at the idea, but much had changed since then.

We reached the Windhelm stables not long before dark. The carriage driver seemed to have warmed to me a little once he had determined I wasn’t going to burn his carriage to cinders, and he stopped me as I set off towards the city.

“You watch yourself in that there city, lass. Not just the temperature that’s cold. They’re a bit funny about foreign folk — seat of Ulfric bloody Stormcloak and all that.”

I nodded my thanks, picked up my belongings, and set off across the broad stone bridge. Now that I was here, I _was_ starting to feel a little nervous. Ulfric Stormcloak’s city … perhaps it was a bit foolish to have come here, but on the other hand, Endarie had paid me _very_ well, and nobody back in Solitude had warned me against it. Well, not too vehemently, anyway.

The wind cut like a knife, and I shivered a little crossing the bridge. The driver hadn’t been joking — autumn was still nearly a week away, and yet it was already freezing cold here. I quickly called to mind the little cantrip I’d learned as a child to keep me warm, and felt it sink into my skin. That was better. Meeko, of course, was perfectly comfortable in his thick, luxuriant fur.

The city guards at the enormous paired gates halted me as I tried to enter. “State your business.”

I stopped short. None of the guards in Whiterun or Solitude had demanded to know what I, or anyone else, was about.

“Just visiting,” I said uncertainly, and hefted my lute and the paper-wrapped package. “I’m a bard. I also have a delivery for Brunwulf Free-Winter.”

The guard looked me up and down coldly. “Bard, eh? A likely story. You watch yourself, Breton. If you’re actually a Forsworn in disguise you’ll find no mercy if you stir up any trouble.”

 _A what?_ I stared at the guard in confusion, but he offered no explanation, merely unlocking the small sally-port and standing aside to let me through.

“Remember, Breton. No funny business. We’ll be watching you.”

This time when I shivered it wasn’t from the cold. What an unpleasant man.

It didn’t take long for me to learn that it wasn’t just the gate-guard who was unpleasant, but the whole city. Sneers and leers followed me wherever I went. I was cat-called more than once. Mean-looking groups of Nord men roamed the darkening streets like gangs of thugs. One group of them seemed to be harassing a poor Dunmer woman for no reason other than the colour of skin. I stepped up to intervene — but then remembered that I was small, and female, and alone; while there were three of them, all huge, and with fists that I could all too easily imagine pounding into my flesh. So I merely hurried past, averting my gaze and feeling a coward.

Figuring that I would rather be where all these unfriendly Nords weren’t, after delivering my package to a wealthy household in the northwest corner of the city I headed towards what the locals called the ‘Grey Quarter’. This was apparently where all the city’s migrant Dunmer lived. I had been expecting a thriving community of people building a new life in a new home, and was shocked and horrified to instead find the area little better than a slum. Many of the Dunmer looked starved and sick, and at least as many seemed to live on the streets as in houses.

Still, it was after dark, and I didn’t much fancy roaming the streets of this particular city late at night, so I followed an urchin’s directions to a place called the New Gnisis Cornerclub. It was a little hole-in-the-wall tavern in the heart of the Grey Quarter, and as soon as I entered I knew I didn’t belong. I was the only non-Dunmer in the place. A sea of red eyes followed me as I walked across the dirty floor, and the tall bartender stared at me in frank incredulity when I squeaked out my request to perform and handed over my letter of recommendation — now bearing two signatures — with trembling hands.

“If you insist, _sera_ ,” he drawled. “But I can’t pay you. I’ll swap you a drink of sujamma for a few songs though … if you think you can handle it.” His smile did not touch his eyes.

“That — that’ll be fine.” I was already heartily regretting coming in, and just wanted to get through this ordeal as quickly as possible, preferably with all my blood still inside my body. At least I had Meeko. Was he combat trained, I wondered?

I stumbled through a few simple tunes and folksongs, my eyes darting nervously around the room the whole time, then threw back the small tumbler of clear liquid the bartender passed me. As soon as the drink hit my throat I coughed and spluttered, causing not just the bartender but the whole bar to burst into dry, husky laughter. My eyes watered. This was sujamma? It was _awful_.

“Thank you,” I choked out, my throat still burning. “That was … quite an experience.”

“Want another?” The bartender held out the bottle. “On the house.”

I felt myself turning green. “No — no thank you.” Another round of laughter from the bar, and I stood up on unsteady legs. “I think … I think I’ll be going now. It was a pleasure doing business with you. Until next time.” _Next time, when all of Nirn is consumed by Oblivion,_ I thought as the door closed behind me. I imagined I could still hear a few dry chuckles.

“Where do we go now, boy?” I said to Meeko. He cocked his head and let his tongue loll. “Right, of course. How should you know?” I sighed. “I thought I saw a big inn near the city gates. Let’s see if we can find our way there without getting lost.”

* * *

Candlehearth Hall was large, opulent, elegantly decorated … and I hated it. It had none of the Skeever’s character or the Bannered Mare’s charm, and was filled with nasty, unwelcoming people to boot. I sat squirreled in a corner, trying to concentrate on studying some magic. I’d been hired to play for the night, yes — what was left of it — but halfway into my set I’d been _heckled_. Actually heckled, for the first time in my life! I’d never felt so insulted. After that I was feeling so put out and resentful that I’d taken the rest of the night off out of spite, complaining to the proprietress that I felt sick. Hopefully my vague symptoms would make her worry I’d been made ill by her cooking. I had hated the woman from the moment she had called Meeko a ‘stupid dog’, and warned me not to let him track mud over her floor.

 _I think I've found the most awful city in all of Skyrim,_ I wrote in my journal. _My parents warned me Skyrim would be colder than would suit my tastes, but by the Divines, nothing could have prepared me for Windhelm._

I laid down my journal and quill and hugged my knees miserably to my chest. Truth be told, I _was_ still feeling a little ill from the sujamma. I felt ill, and miserable, and alone. What had I been thinking, coming to Windhelm? Coming to _Skyrim_? I’d hardly done much to prove to anyone, least of all myself, that I could make it alone. Why, just about everything that had gone right for me since arriving had been because of somebody else’s kindness. I blinked away tears. Mara’s mercy, I felt so young and stupid. Did I really think I was strong enough, brave enough, to forge a path for myself here, alone? Especially now that I knew just what I was getting myself into? _Civil war_? By the Divines.

Just then, Meeko’s head pushed roughly between my knees and my chest. My fingers twined in his fur, and I leaned over to hug his head to me. I held him for a long moment.

“You’re right,” I whispered into his soft fur. “I’m not alone. Thank you.”

I wiped my eyes and pulled out my spellbook again. I could cry about how unprepared I felt for life in Skyrim, or I could actually do something about it.

* * *

The next morning I left Windhelm as early as I could. I didn’t want to spend a second longer in that miserable city than I had to, especially after I overheard whispers in the inn that young women had been disappearing off the streets, only to later turn up dead. Coming here had definitely been a mistake. Endarie would just have to use a courier next time, no matter how much gold she offered me.

After a pleasant and uneventful carriage ride I spent a pleasant and uneventful night in Whiterun — a humbled Mikael still treating me with wary respect — and the morning after that was on another carriage, heading north. While I had enjoyed seeing more of Skyrim over the past few days I had to admit that I was growing heartily sick of carriages and their unpadded seats. I winced over every bump, my backside having grown increasingly sore from all the continuous travel. If only I had a horse … I thought with a pang of Mist. I knew our grooms would be making sure she was well cared for, but would they remember to slip her an apple every Loredas?

Suddenly the carriage drew up short. “What’s going on?” I said, startled out of my reverie.

The carriage driver looked over his shoulder. By sheer coincidence it was the same driver who’d delivered me to Whiterun — or perhaps there just weren’t that many drivers working this route. Especially with the new ‘toll road’.

“Nothing t’ worry yer head over, lass. Someone’s been tied up on the road. Hold tight, we’ll go round.”

I was aghast. “What do you mean, ‘go round’? We can’t just leave them there! We have to help!”

“It’s nae someone _really_ in trouble. It’s a scam. Soon as someone unties that there poor wee vulnerable lass her friends will pop outta them there bushes and rob the fool blind.” He shook his head at me pityingly.

“You can’t know that for sure. What if it’s actually someone in trouble? We can’t just leave them there for the wolves and sabre cats!” I stood up from my seat, gripping the side as the carriage rolled slowly through the uneven grassy ground beside the road. “Stop the carriage. I’m going to help.”

“Dinnae be foolish, lass!”

Drawing myself up to my full height, I adopted my sternest, most formal ‘duchess-in-waiting’ voice. “My good man. You _will_ stop the carriage and you _will_ let me disembark. I will _not_ suffer any poor citizen to be left as fodder for wild animals, no matter the risk.”

The carriage driver stared at me in outright astonishment, and wordlessly reined his horse to a stop. Mustering as much dignity as I could I clambered off the back of the carriage, followed by Meeko, who jumped off in one lithe bound.

“Wait for me here. I won’t be long.”

The driver shook his head as I pushed my way through the long grass, my chin held high. He probably meant well, and I couldn’t blame him for being cautious, but many commoners simply didn’t _understand_ the obligations and duty which bound those of us of higher birth. It wasn’t his fault he hadn’t been raised knowing it was his responsibility to help those less fortunate — but he would _not_ stop me from fulfilling my own duty.

“Hello?” I called as I approached the hooded, bound woman. She was dirty, and I could see where the ropes had chafed against her wrists. “Hello, can you hear me? Are you all right?”

“Help me … please, help …” She coughed weakly, and struggled a little against her bonds. “They left me here to die. You have to help. So many have passed by, uncaring …”

My heart broke for the poor woman. “Keep still. I’ll have these ropes off you in an instant.” I busied myself with the knots at her wrists, frowning intently. They’d been tied very tightly. “Stop that, Meeko! One second ma’am, these are nearly free — there we go.” I leaned back proudly on my heels. The woman was scrabbling to undo her hood.

“I’ve got some water in my pack, back at the carriage, and I’m sure the driver won’t mind giving you a lift as far as Rorik— for Divines’ sake, Meeko, what _is_ it?”

Then the woman tossed away her hood, and her mean, triumphant smile told me exactly what Meeko had been trying to warn me about, even before I heard the voice behind me.

“Turn around, real slow-like, and keep yer hands where I can see ‘em.”

My hands in the air I turned around, to be met by a short, wiry man wearing old leathers and a nasty grin. He had a sword trained at my neck, and another held loosely in his other hand. His face reminded me strongly of a rat.

“Very kind of you to help out my poor luckless colleague,” he said, tossing the other sword to her. “One good turn deserves another, so we’ll be helping you on your way by lightenin’ your load somewhat. Startin’ with that there ring.” He pointed to the worn silver ring on my left hand.

I swallowed. “Good sir, that’s only old silver, barely of any value. It was given to me by my grandmother.” I could hear my voice shaking, and cursed myself for how obvious my fear was. Then doubly cursed myself for how stupid and naive I’d been, thinking I knew better than the carriage driver. My heart raced. Still, I shouldn’t be in any real danger. 

“My lute is currently still in the carriage, so I cannot blame you for taking me for nothing but an easy mark. But you should know that you have made a mistake — I am actually a travelling bard. Allow me to leave now, and I will forget any of this ever happened.”

The rat-faced man’s grin widened with every word. “A musician, eh? Well, seems we’re in even more luck than I thought. Those instruments of yourn always fetch a pretty penny, with the right buyer. And you always seem to have such _nice_ clothes bundled away with ‘em. Fancy a new dress, Lyn?”

“Arr, but she’s a bit too scrawny, I reckon,” called the woman from behind me. “Wouldn’t fit.”

“How’s this for a deal instead? You call off that beast of yours right quick, and we won’t gut you like a little fish after we rob you.” He nodded towards Meeko, who had interjected himself between me and the bandits, circling slowly. His hackles were raised, his teeth were bared, and he was growling a low, threatening growl.

My heart pounded. How could this be happening? Had this place descended so far into lawlessness that even the well-known taboo of attacking travelling musicians was ignored? I felt myself beginning to panic. What in Oblivion had I landed myself into? And how was I going to get out of it? They were both clearly frightened of Meeko, which was why we were still talking, but there was only one of him, and two of them …

“Listen,” I said, my voice low. “You’re making a huge mistake. I’m not some simple bard. My father is a noble back in High Rock — an important one — and he’d never rest until you’d been hunted down if any harm came to me. Let me go, though, and I can see you rewarded. I could even make it sound like _you_ rescued _me_ from bandits. You’d be heroes. Rich heroes.”

Both of the pair let out enormous guffaws. The man laughed and laughed, wheezing with mirth.

“Oh, little bird, you’ll have to learn to lie better than that if you’re gonna survive in this province! A high noble! From High Rock! Travelling alone, in a cotton dress!” He wiped his eyes, and the look he turned on me was suddenly predatory, hungry. “It makes for a pretty story though, to match that pretty face. Y’know, I’ve always wanted to bed a pretty noble. Tell you what, you keep up that story til tomorrow mornin’ an I might even let you walk away. … If you can still walk, that is.” He smiled, showing every one of his yellowing teeth.

Tears streamed down my cheeks. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. He reached forward with a grasping claw of a hand, and I recoiled from his long, dirty nails. “No, no, no,” I heard myself saying, “No, please, no …”

At that instant Meeko exploded into barking, launching himself at the man — right as a heavy bolt sprouted from the man’s chest. “Hef!” screamed the woman behind me, but Meeko had quickly changed tack, and the woman soon found herself with eighty pounds of furious canine weighing down her chest, snarling and barking. She tried to reach for the sword she’d dropped, but Meeko snapped at her wrist, and she relented. It was over so quickly I’d barely had time to draw breath.

I stared at Hef, lying still on the road. Through a dull haze I realised that blood was starting to pool around my feet, and stepped out of the way. He was dead. A moment ago he was going to rob me, and worse … and now he was dead. A thought broke through the numbness. Where had the bolt come from?

I looked up to see the carriage driver barrelling towards me, holding an enormous crossbow. His face was bloodless. “Lass! Are you all right?”

I stared at him blankly. “He’s dead. You killed him.”

“Aye, and not a moment too soon … I’m sorry it took so long, thing were a bastard to load … You sure you’re all right? He dinnae hurt you? You’re white as a sheet.”

“I’m fine,” I lied. I looked to where Meeko was still menacing the woman. “What … what do we do with her?”

The driver held up his crossbow. It was loaded, and his gaze was hard.

“No! No, you can’t!”

“Lass, this here pair has been terrorising folks along this road for days!” he said. “D’you know how many they’ve robbed? Left for dead? How d’you think I knew it was a setup? Us drivers have all been warned abou’ them. It’s no better’n she deserves!”

“But you can’t just — kill her! Not when she’s disarmed and detained! It would be murder — we’d be no better than them!”

“What d’you want t’ do, then?”

I thought quickly. “We’ll … tie her up. Take her to Rorikstead — that’s not far from here, right? We can hand her over to the guards there, and they can deal with her. The — the right way.”

“If you’re sure,” the driver said, looking dubious. Nevertheless, he procured a piece of rope from one of his bags and bound the woman — properly, this time. She didn’t say a word as we led her back to the waiting carriage, and merely stared sullenly at me. Meeko, in turn, didn’t take his eyes off her, and kept up his low growling all the way to Rorikstead.

“Where was the crossbow?” I asked, after we had handed Lyn the bandit over to a pair of very confused guards.

“Stowed under me seat. Thought it were about time. Never had to travel with a weapon afore … These are bad times, lass.” He sounded troubled.

Staring blankly ahead, it felt as though I were travelling through a void. I couldn’t banish from my head the stale smell of Hef’s breath, his dirty nails, and that awful, hungry look in his eye … or his cooling body, and the growing puddle of blood around my feet. I glanced at my boots. They were stained. I would need new ones. I began to shake.

Meeko’s head was suddenly a warm, comforting weight in my lap. He looked up at me with his nut-brown eyes, and I took a deep, shuddering breath. I buried my fingers in his fur and tried to think only about how warm and soft and nice it felt.

We arrived at the Solitude stables as dusk was setting in. The sky was a dusty pink at the horizon, blending to a deep, rich blue up above. The harbour was so still it looked as though there were four moons watching over us — two up above, and two beneath our feet. After stepping off the carriage I walked shakily to the front, where the driver was unhitching his horse. She was a truly lovely mare, I noticed suddenly. Far finer than I’d have expected for a carriage-horse.

“Thank you,” I said to the driver. “And … I’m sorry.”

“Arr, t’were nothing, lass,” he said gruffly. “I cannae blame you for wantin’ t’ do good. You may need to temper that impulse though, much as it saddens me to say it. These are bad times.”

I tried to press a purse of coins into his hand. “For the … inconvenience.” He just laughed.

“Nae, lass. I cannae take your money. Not for just doin’ me duty.”

His duty … Divines, had I been a fool. A naive, arrogant fool.

I held out my empty hand. “Then take this instead. I am forever in your debt.”

He took my small hand in his large one, and gently shook it. Even in the gathering dark I could see his smile. “Name’s Bjorlam, by the by.”

“Kirilee.”

“‘Twere a pleasure t’ meet you, Miss Kirilee. Fare you well.”

“And you, Master Bjorlam.”

I inclined my head briefly then began the long climb to the upper city, Meeko by my side. I was very tired. My body, mind and heart felt wrung-out and hollow.

The crowds thickened as I grew closer to the upper city gate, and as I heard the swelling music, cheering and laughter I remembered: it was the day of Harvest’s End. Everyone in the city would be celebrating in the streets. Members of the Bards’ College would likely be in attendance — it would be a perfect opportunity to try and catch the eye of one of the Deans, perhaps even Viarmo himself.

Even as the thought flitted into my mind, however, I dismissed it. I could not play today. I could not celebrate. So I instead pushed through the crowds, avoiding the table where I could see the Viniuses serving free food and drink, and let myself and Meeko into the empty inn. This suited my hollow, empty mood much better. I poured myself a goblet of spiced wine, dropping a few coins onto the bar in exchange, then sat alone at a table in a corner, Meeko’s head in my lap. I stared into a guttering candle. A man had died only inches from my face today. I felt numb.

After some hours the music and chatter outside began to gradually die away. I heard someone being sick in the bushes. A clattering noise in the back of the inn, followed by Sorex and Corpulus’ voices — they must be packing up, bringing everything back inside. I abandoned my still-brimming goblet and slipped upstairs, where I lay down on the bed, fully clothed. I continued staring dully into the darkness filling the room. It was a long time before I fell asleep.


	5. Of Gods and Mortals

A few normal, calm days in Solitude more or less restored me to my usual self. I kept myself busy, in hopes that taking to bed properly tired would prevent me from dreaming … a hope that was only partially realised. Nevertheless, it felt good to spend my days working hard.

The biggest change in my routine was in the amount of time I devoted to studying magic. After my recent, increasingly close brushes with death and violence I was convinced I needed something more than just words to fall back on, were trouble ever to find me again. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to use magic to actually _hurt_ anyone, but I knew there were spells that would let me immobilise foes or send them to sleep while I escaped; not to mention spells that would make me tougher and stronger and better able to resist being hurt myself. And so I spent long hours learning and absorbing forms — only simple spells and cantrips at first, for it had been so many years of neglecting my magical studies that I knew I needed to start with some serious groundwork. Even learning such simple magic was devilishly tricky. Master Lorent had told me I was ‘oozing with potential’, magically speaking, but I had never found magic to come to me as easily as music always had … or perhaps it was just that I’d never devoted as much time to practicing my forms as my scales.

Still, the results of my work were undoubtedly satisfying, and the afternoon of my fourth day back in the city found me damp, tousle-haired, but brimming with pride. I’d just caught my first ever fish with magic, and I was carrying a basket of fresh salmon through the city to the Skeever. I was sure Corpulus would be able to work some culinary magic on them for supper.

My self-congratulatory inner monologue was interrupted a few streets away from the upper city. I caught sight of an unfamiliar beggar walking in circles with an awkward shambling gait — a small old Bosmer man, with leathery, wrinkled skin. He was muttering softly to himself and dry-washing his hands, and when I grew close enough to see his eyes I was startled to see they were great, black orbs that reminded me of dark nights and empty tunnels. I intended to give him a few coins before moving on, or perhaps a fish or two, but as soon as he spotted me approaching he surged forward, crying, “You! You’ll help me! You help people, right? That’s what you do?”

Despite my alarm at being bull-rushed by a man who was clearly not entirely right in the head, I was flattered. Goodness, I had a reputation already? Rather pleased, and ignoring Meeko’s warning growls, I asked the old man what he needed.

“My master has abandoned me! Abandoned his people! And nothing I can say can change his mind. Now he refuses to even see me, saying I interrupt his vacation. It’s been so many years, so long without his guidance … Won’t you please help?”

I sorted through the old man’s ramblings, trying to separate fact from fancy. It sounded as though the man’s lord or master had discarded him, for some reason — perhaps taking care of a retainer with an ailing mind had grown too tiresome. I felt indignant. A nobleman had a duty of care to _all_ in his employ, regardless of whether they had … more particular needs! What kind of heartless monster would abandon a loyal retainer exactly when he most needed his master’s protection?

Eyes flashing, I drew myself up. I would find this man, and give him a piece of my mind. How dare he leave his poor, sick servant to beg in the streets?

“How can I find your master?” I asked, as gently as I could.

The old man shuffled his feet hopefully. “Really? You’ll help? Last I saw him, he was visiting a friend in the Blue Palace. He went into the forbidden wing, Pelagius' Wing, to speak with an old friend. Said it had been ages since they’d last had tea.” He beamed at me. “Thank you, thank you! You have a kind heart.”

“I’ll find him,” I promised. “I’ll just drop these fish off and then I’ll head straight there.”

After he had shambled away, happily clutching the coins I had given him with both hands, I turned to Meeko. He had not stopped growling through the entire conversation, and was still following the old elf with his eyes.

“What’s up with you? You were so rude!” Meeko looked up at me with reproachful eyes. “Stop that. He’s just a nice, harmless old man. It’s not his fault he’s a little … different.”

* * *

Two hours later I stood in front of a locked door in a dusty back corridor of the Blue Palace. One of the maids, an elf-eyed Nord named Erdi, was fumbling with a large ring of keys while her eyes darted anxiously about. “I really shouldn’t be doing this, you know. If it wasn’t you who was asking …”

“I know. I’m grateful.”

“Are you sure your friend said his master was in here? As far as I know this wing has been locked up tight for years.”

I frowned. “I’m sure. Though … he wasn’t exactly right in the head. But he didn’t seem to be able to remember his master’s name, and ‘Pelagius Wing’ was the only thing he seemed certain about. I figure there’s no harm in at least checking.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. The poor old man. Well, there it is — come find me when you’re done and I’ll lock up.” She gestured at the door. “What’s wrong with your dog, by the way?”

“I don’t know. He’s been acting oddly since we met the old man. Maybe he’s just upset I made him have a bath after he went swimming in the docks.” I looked sternly at Meeko, who was growling at the closed door, his fur bristling. “Calm _down_ , boy. It’s just a door.”

Erdi jingled her keys anxiously. “I’d better get back to work. See you later, Kirilee.”

“See you. Thanks, Erdi.”

I pulled the door open and walked through. “See, Meeko? Just an ordinary door, leading to an ordinary corridor. Erdi’s right, though — it doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in years …” I gazed around at the dark walls hung with cobwebs, the haphazardly-stacked crates, and the thick dust blanketing the floor.

“No footsteps,” I commented to Meeko. “Perhaps he _was_ wrong. We may as well check properly though. Come on, boy, what’s the matter?”

Meeko determinedly refused to set foot over the threshold into the Pelagius Wing. He had hold of my leggings and was trying to drag me back out, too.

“Stop it! Those are new, you’ll rip them! Let _go_.” I glared at my unfathomable dog. “Fine. Stay here. I’ll be back soon.” Meeko whined, his eyes pleading, but I ignored him, turned on my heel, and strode into the dark, dusty corridor.

After ten minutes I was convinced that the old Bosmer’s bent mind had sent me on a wild goose chase after all. Though I had searched and called and hunted, I’d found nothing except dust, cobwebs and disused furniture. I sighed. Time to turn back, I supposed. Hopefully Meeko hadn’t completely lost his mind, too, by the time I got back.

I turned around — and then suddenly I was … elsewhere.

My feet stood on firm ground — of that I was sure — but that was all I was certain about. I seemed to be in some sort of misty glade, I thought, but everything was … wrong. Constant hints of movement flickered in the outskirts of my vision, but when I swivelled my head, there was never anything there. The surrounding trees and plants also seemed to bend my mind, somehow … I couldn’t define it, exactly, but there was a subtle cast of _not quite right_ -ness about everything I looked at. As though I were looking through a distorted pane of glass, except that the glass was between my eyes and my brain.

Something also felt … odd, as though a sense of familiarity I had always known, no matter where I was, had suddenly disappeared. I was strangely and inexplicably certain that wherever I was, it was not on Nirn.

Suddenly I was very afraid.

Set in the centre of the glade, about ten feet from where I had materialised, stretched a long banquet table set with all kinds of things that weren’t … food. Rather than cakes and meats and vegetables the plates were laden with clocks, books, rotting fish, piles of torn up fabrics … I thought I even saw a solitary comb occupying an enormous silver platter. Sitting at the table, chatting amicably as though we were in the most ordinary place imaginable, were two men. One was dressed in rather old-fashioned finery, the other in a two-piece suit of purple and orange. It was covered in strange, shifting designs that seemed to move across the surface of the fabric like oil over water.

After a few seconds, without warning, the one in the old-fashioned clothes simply … vanished, and the other turned towards me.

My previous spike of fear was only a gentle prelude to the terror that coursed through my veins when it turned its eyes on me. Though this … _thing_ … had the shape of an ordinary, middle-aged man, I knew immediately that this was no man. No mortal, even. It radiated an awful sense of twisted, chaotic power, and I immediately began to feel the edges of my mind unravelling as it looked me in the eyes. It was all I could do to hold onto my sense of self as it grinned at me; a too-wide grin that stretched so far I felt its face ought to have fallen off. I began to shake. A scream built within me, but my lungs were too paralysed to let it form.

“Welcome,” it said, in a voice that bypassed my ears and reached with slippery tendrils straight into my head, “to the deceptively verdant mind of Emperor Pelagius the Third.” It swept into a low mockery of a bow. “Allow me to introduce myself … no, no wait! You first, you first!”

I couldn’t speak. I could barely breathe. Every part of me was still locked up with terror. _Run!_ my mind frantically screamed at me, _Run away!_ — but it was all I could do to stand in place and prevent myself from falling into a quivering, gibbering heap.

The monster let out a long pretend yawn. The inside of its mouth was larger than it could possibly have been from the outside. “… Oh, pardon me. Were you saying something? I do apologise, it’s just that I find myself suddenly and irrevocably … Bored! I mean, really. Here you stand, before Sheogorath himself, Daedric Prince of Madness, and all you deem fit to do is … gape like a fish? _This_ is really the best those stuffy Aedra see fit to send?”

Sheogorath? I was in the presence of _the Mad God himself_? My teeth began to chatter. I clenched my jaw shut, but couldn’t stop every part of me from shaking.

_Oh, Divines. Lady Dibella, help me, please! Dibella, Mara, Kynareth — I’m lost, I’m done for. This is the end._

_… Mother, Father, I’m so sorry. I’ve made such a mess of things._ Several frightened tears squeezed from my eyes and ran rivulets down my cheeks.

“Still nothing? Well, little mortal. Let me kick things off instead. Let me offer you … a bargain.” Impossible though it seemed, its smile widened further.

A bargain? Even through the overwhelming, knee-knocking terror; even through the hysterical screaming in the back of my mind and my frantic, desperate attempts to stop my Self slipping away from the grasping, slithering tentacles of power twining through my head; even through my unshakable knowledge that I would never escape this place while I was still me; one word pushed to the forefront of my mind.

No.

No, I would make no bargains. I wanted nothing to do with this awful being, no matter what it would offer me. I’d rather die.

“No?” The Daedra seemed to have been able to sense my thoughts. Its eyes darkened into whirling vortexes of fury, sucking and swirling and pulling inexorably at my sanity. “ _No?!_ ”

“No.” I clutched my Dibella amulet for strength, and felt a sudden warmth in my fingers, as well as a little clarity restored to my mind. Straightening, words appeared in my mind, as though painted there by someone else’s brush. “No! I renounce thee, Daedra. I deny thy power! Begone from my mind!”

Suddenly a new set of forms appeared in my head — forms I didn’t know, had never before seen, but recognised instantly as forms of great power. Somehow, I knew what to do. I spoke a few words in a language I did not recognise, and the forms flowed from my lips, forming a spell anchored to the unfamiliar words. I almost saw the divine power billowing through the air.

Sheogorath staggered, looking shocked. Reality rippled. Then all went black.

When I came to, I was back in the Pelagius Wing, Meeko snuffling at me. I coughed weakly. My throat hurt, and my lips were blistered: damage caused by the power of the spell I had unknowingly cast. There was a reason spells were rarely anchored to spoken words, these days.

Using Meeko’s broad, steady back I pulled myself to my feet. “Thank you, boy,” I whispered. “I’ll never doubt you again.” I shook my head. I felt tired and weak, but otherwise unharmed — physically, at least. My mind felt … tender, bruised, from Sheogorath’s psychic assault.

As we stumbled out of the palace I tried to recall exactly what had happened in … whatever that place was. How had I escaped? And … why did my magical senses feel different? I prodded at my magicka reserves, and cast a quick Candlelight, then bobbed it around for Meeko to chase. Yes. Something had … changed. My magic felt stronger, more responsive; my magicka reserves deeper and quicker-replenishing.

I fingered the amulet resting on my breast. I had asked the Divines for aid and … help had come. Was _that_ what had happened? Had I really escaped the Mad God’s clutches because of _Divine intervention_? It sounded crazy. But I could think of no other explanation for what had happened.

To be frank, I had never before given the Divines much thought. I had chosen Dibella as my patron deity for Her connection to art and beauty, but while I prayed semi-diligently and followed Her tenets I had never really thought of the Divines as … real, and active, and involved in the lives of mortals. Perhaps they only took an interest when the opposing forces of the Daedra were concerned? Or perhaps only for certain people — though I was certainly not special enough to warrant such attention, I thought scornfully — or perhaps only when the whim took them … Who could really hope to understand the motivations of a god.

I breathed deeply of the crisp night air, looking away from the Bards’ College by instinct. One thing was for certain, if it _had_ been the Divines, then I had been overwhelmingly lucky, and was overwhelmingly grateful. Had They not intervened when They had, by then I would doubtless have been even more a gibbering husk than the old Bosmer man. My heart twisted with pity. Did he even remember his name? Did he still have an identity, or had he been wholly consumed by his twisted master? Daedra worship was an abomination, yes … but I didn’t think many would have the strength of mind to oppose a will like Sheogorath’s. I was doubly sure now that I had come up against it myself.

* * *

The next morning I caught the first carriage heading south. After returning to the inn the previous night I had gotten uproariously drunk — drunker than I had ever been in my life — but not even the sweet fog of alcohol could wipe away the memory of how it had felt to have the Mad God’s corrosive tendrils of power pushing their way into my mind. I needed to get away. Away from the palace and the dreams and the madness which was so fresh it hurt to think of. It was time, I decided, to visit Riften.


	6. The Matriarch of Riften

Riften was a city of contradictions. It was undeniably beautiful; set on the shore of a tranquil lake and surrounded by the Rift’s famous ever-gold aspen forests … yet inside the stench of the canals was unavoidable, and everything was filthy and in varying states of disrepair. The people, too, were a confusing mix of suspicious hostility and a quiet, desperate yearning for someone, anyone, to help them find a better life. I immediately recognised the symptoms of a city which had once been great — I had read it referred to in books as the ‘Jewel of Skyrim’ — but had since fallen, through a combination of mismanagement, neglect, and rampant corruption. The last of these was shockingly blatant. The gate guards tried to extort from me a ‘visitor’s tax’ to enter the city, and right inside the gate I was accosted by a brute of a man called Maul who warned me the city was controlled by the Black-Briar family, and not to get in their way. I had furrowed my brow at this — my research at home had told me Riften was ruled by the Law-Giver family — but then again, what did I know? I had thought Torygg was High King. Everything seemed to be changing, with the advent of this civil war.

For civil war it plainly was, now. On my way to Riften I had seen my first proper evidence of it, other than the increased bandit presence: between Rorikstead and Whiterun we had passed a skirmish between a platoon of Imperial Legion soldiers and a band of Nords dressed in blue, who wore a bear sigil on their cloaks and shields. Bjorlam had told me these were the infamous Stormcloaks. I had watched the battle in horrified fascination as we gave them a wide berth, looping far off the road to avoid stray arrows. This was nothing like soldiers sparring in the practice-yards back home. It was bloody and savage and stank to high Aetherius, and a thick, palpable atmosphere of anger and hatred hung in the air. This conflict felt _personal_. I had crossed my fingers tightly until we had left the skirmish far behind, and had needed a jot of brandy in addition to my usual wine at the Bannered Mare to relax afterwards.

I suspected the problems of Riften went far deeper than could be explained by just the civil war, however. The city had the feel of a place that had been floundering for years, if not decades. As I wove through the marketplace I felt a strange mixture of pity, revulsion and anger, noting the unusually high number of beggars and orphans, and the dull desperation that seemed to lurk behind the gazes of the regular cityfolk. What in Oblivion was wrong with the ruling nobles here, these Black-Briars? How could they care so little about the people over whom they professed to rule? This should be a proud, prosperous city, not a cesspit of beggars and cutpurses — for I was sure I spotted a number of thieves slipping through the crowds, and had probably only avoided being robbed myself because of Meeko. An enormous, watchful hunting-dog made for a rather effective thief-deterrent.

It was late afternoon by the time I had arrived in the city, and so I made my way directly to the inn. The Bee and Barb, it was called — a charming name, I thought — and it occupied a prominent place right in the heart of the city.

“What do you think it’ll be like, Meeko?” I said, after having stopped for the half-dozenth time to drop some coins into an urchin’s outstretched hands. “We’ve had lofty and airy, warm and cosy, opulent but unwelcoming — where will the Bee and Barb fall on the spectrum?”

I pushed open the door of the inn, and nearly walked headfirst into a fistfight.

… Oh. It was _that_ sort of place.

My heart sinking, I edged around the pair of brawling men rolling around on the floor and found an empty space in which to stop and take my bearings. I looked around appraisingly. It wasn’t quite as bad as I had first thought. Yes, it was a bit gloomy and sparsely decorated, but it was also spotlessly clean, and clearly well-cared-for. I got the impression that this inn was loved, and its shabbiness was due to lack of coin rather than lack of care.

A lithe Argonian man was sweeping the floor, but when he spotted me standing somewhat awkwardly in place leaned his broom against the wall and strode across the room. His eyes flicked up and down, taking stock of my garb and bearing. I supposed my Radiant Raiment-made outfit, while quite ordinary in upper Solitude, rather stood out here.

“Ah, welcome, milady, to the Bee and Barb. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Good evening, sir,” I replied, inclining my head slightly. “Are you the proprietor of this establishment?”

“I am. Well, myself and Keerava over there.” He nodded towards the bar, behind which stood a bad-tempered looking Argonian woman. She had the look of someone who was every day further convinced of the sheer blinding idiocy of other people, and delighted in sharing this discovery with the world. By the warmth in the Argonian man’s eyes when he looked at her, however, she could have been the sweetest and gentlest creature to ever walk the face of Nirn.

I held out my increasingly-creased letter of recommendation. “Then allow me to introduce myself. My name is Kirilee — I’m a travelling bard, visiting from Solitude. I was hoping to gain a few nights’ employ in your lovely inn while I am staying in the city. I am practiced in the lute, flute and voice; have a broad and expansive repertoire of both instrumental works and songs; and I’m experienced with tailoring my performances to suit my audience. You’ll find here recommendations from both Hulda Oaken-Hold of the Bannered Mare and Corpulus Vinius of the Winking Skeever. You won’t regret giving your regular bard a few nights off and hiring me instead, I can assure you.” I gave him a warm, professional smile.

The innkeeper let out a short bark of laughter. “Ha! All you needed to say was ‘musician’, little miss. You could have skipped the rest of your speech. We haven’t got a resident bard here at the Bee and Barb — we’d be glad to take you on while you’re in town.”

I blinked at him in surprise. No resident bard, in the major inn of a capital city? Just how bad _were_ things in Riften? Oh, well. It made my life a little easier … or at least, I hoped so. I glanced apprehensively at the fistfight. It had drawn a crowd of people, heckling and cheering. Perhaps tonight I wouldn’t change into my fancy gown.

The innkeeper, who was called Talen-Jei, led me to the bar and introduced me to his partner Keerava. She handled all the inn’s financial matters, apparently. After hashing out the details of my contract Talen-Jei poured me one of his specialty drinks, and I settled in to watch the roomful of people, Meeko stretched out at my feet. I wanted to spend some time absorbing the atmosphere before my evening’s performance — having a finger on the pulse of an audience was an important skill for any musician, and I suspected it would be particularly important in this city. I didn’t want a repeat of Windhelm.

I did not at all like what I saw. The atmosphere here was very different to those of the Skeever or the Bannered Mare, which were on the whole cheerful, jolly places filled with people unwinding and catching up with friends after a day of work. The people here, on the other hand, drank to forget. Back home visiting the inn was a comfortable part of a cityperson’s life — here it was an escape from that life.

My mood darkened further the more I observed and overheard. At one point I heard a woman loudly berating her husband for all the charity work he was doing, complaining that the people helped were coming to expect his handouts, and behaving as though they were owed them. I shook my head over my cocktail. What kind of a place was this, that those who were actually trying to make a difference were stamped down even by those who should have supported them the most?

I made a decision. I _would_ help these people. I would speak to the Jarl, this Maven Black-Briar, and convince her that there was a better way. If she only expended a little time and effort this city could once again be the Jewel of Skyrim. It would be a delicate game, in my guise of ‘common bard’, but I was sure I could manage it. I had to at least _try_. But first, I would need information.

I turned to Talen-Jei. “Can you tell me about the Jarl? What kind of a person is she?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there, miss. What would a simple man like me know about the likes of someone like her?” He shrugged, but smiled, and returned to cleaning tankards.

“But surely you must know _something_ ,” I pressed him. “What’s she like as a ruler? Is she kind? Strict? What are taxes like?”

He glanced at me suspiciously. “Why are you so interested?”

“I just … I just …” I gestured broadly around the room. “I’ve only been in this city an hour or two and I can already tell things aren’t … right. You’d know that better than anyone, I expect. Well, I thought that I’d go and — and talk to the Jarl. Convince her to make things … better.” I subsided into a mutter, my face reddening at the growing incredulity on Talen-Jei’s face. No sooner had I stopped talking than he burst into laughter. He laughed long and hard — long enough that it was starting to feel rather rude, and my embarrassment was beginning to shift into indignation. Finally he left off. I glared at him.

“Oh, young miss, it was worth bringing you on for that alone. I haven’t laughed so well in months.” He let out another small chuckle. “You can certainly try, and I’d love to hear the story of how _that_ little encounter played out afterwards. I wouldn’t expect much of it though. Riften isn’t going to be fixed by a stern word from a stripling of a girl, no matter how fiercely she can glare. The Jarl’s only a tiny part of the problem, anyway.”

“But surely if I just _talk_ to Jarl Black-Briar, convince her —”

I was interrupted by the loudest guffaw of laughter yet. “Jarl Black-Briar! Oh, you are a treasure. Here. Have another drink. It’s clear someone needs to fill you in on the situation here, or we’ll probably find you floating face-down in the canal within the day. Divines save us from naive idealists.” Still chuckling, he poured me a goblet of wine. My cheeks burned. Then, after checking thoroughly over my shoulder for eavesdroppers, Talen-Jei told me a story about a city.

He told me of a city which had once been wealthy, safe and happy, but over the past two decades had slid further and further into poverty and crime. A city where the Jarl — who _was_ still Laila Law-Giver — was whispered to be little more than a puppet. A city which was instead ruled in all but name by a powerful matriarch, whose mead business was rumoured to be only the tip of the iceberg in terms of her business interests, and who held the city in an iron grip of coin and fear.

“We can barely afford Black-Briar mead these days, but we’d be slitting our own throats to order Honningbrew, or any of Maven’s other competitors,” Talen-Jei remarked. “Nobody crosses the Black-Briars. No one. It’s not just that they’re richer than kings and will throw their money and influence around at the slightest provocation. They’re known to be in with —” he lowered his voice to a hiss, “— the _Thieves’ Guild_ , who are headquartered in the Ratways under the city. They’re vermin … garbage. They’re exactly what makes this city such a horrible place to live. And they’ve got the Black-Briars’ full, if unofficial, backing.”

I nodded my head slowly. “Corpulus warned me not to go near the Ratways.”

“Smart man. So now maybe you can see why it’s such a fool’s errand trying to fix this place.” He sighed. “Still, it’s good of you to want to make a difference. Few enough even go that far — Mjoll’s pretty much the only one these days, not that she’s had much success.” He nodded towards a corner where a tall, burly woman with a mane of striking blonde hair was deep in conversation with a rather weak-chinned man.

I sipped my wine, thinking. The corruption here really was much worse, much deeper, than I had thought. Talen-Jei had even mentioned skooma — I shuddered. Skooma was a disease. Any place it was allowed to fester was soon left a dead, lifeless husk. The blank, empty-eyed looks I’d seen from many of the city’s beggars made even more sense, now.

Talen-Jei suddenly stiffened, and I followed his gaze to where one of the inn doors had opened to admit an intimidating, well-dressed woman of late middle age and an equally well-dressed, but much younger man. Both had carefully-styled dark hair, beaky noses, and identical cold, arrogant stares. I could guess with reasonable certainty who the pair might be, based on the immediate susurration that went around the inn, and the way they headed purposefully for a table which had clearly been left empty just for them. Talen-Jei’s whisper confirmed it though: “That’s them. Maven Black-Briar, with her youngest, Sibbi.”

I watched the two Black-Briars as they settled into their seats, then looked quickly away when I noticed Maven’s eyes alight upon me. This was not a woman whose attention I wanted to draw — not with anything other than my music, at least.

Talen-Jei let out a small sigh, muttered “Wish me luck” under his breath, and hurried over to take their orders. His manner had totally changed, from that of the confident innkeep, master of his domain, to a crawling, simpering sycophant who wrung his hands and peppered his sentences with platitudes. I felt sickened, but if even half of what he had told me about the Black-Briars was true then I couldn’t blame him. … And from the little I overheard of how they treated him it wasn’t hard to believe.

As often as I dared during my performance that night my eyes lingered on Maven and Sibbi Black-Briar. I watched the way they expected and received absolute obeisance from everyone in the inn. I watched Maven declare Keerava’s cooking inadequate, and send it back — then waspish, takes-no-nonsense Keerava immediately prepare a new plate, bowing and scraping. I watched Sibbi smack the behind of the inn’s serving-girl, who was clearly very uncomfortable, but too terrified to protest. They were treated like royalty, though I suspected that despite all their gold and influence, their social rank was actually probably only relatively minor. Never had I known any actual royalty to behave in so disgustingly cruel and dismissive a manner to _anyone_ , either, regardless of rank. I hated them more and more each minute. When they finally got up and left about halfway through my second set I was relieved, and wasn’t quite sure what to make of the appraising look Maven gave me on her way out.

* * *

The next morning dawned blustery and overcast — though of course I was fast asleep until several hours after the dawn, having played until around midnight the night before. I had mixed feelings about the previous night as I went down for breakfast. On the one hand, yes, Keerava and Talen-Jei had been very complimentary, and the patrons had seemed to enjoy my playing and singing — but on the other hand they had all broken off watching me to instead turn their attention to the second fistfight of the night when that had inevitably broken out, and had applauded it at least as loudly as my performance. My tips from the patrons had also all been in the form of things like lockpicks and half-drunk bottles of ale.

After a quick breakfast of honeyed porridge for me and sausages for Meeko we braved the windy weather to venture out into the city. “You still planning on visiting the Jarl, girl?” Keerava smirked as I picked up my pack.

“Yes … though Talen-Jei has convinced me to take a more … measured approach,” I said. I still wanted to at least see for myself this woman who had let her city so thoroughly fall to bits, but I was no longer so sure marching up to her door and demanding to be listened to was the best approach. Having thought about it, I’d decided that today I could use the same method that had won me an audience with Elisif — modelling a gown from Radiant Raiment in hopes of securing the sisters a contract — to at least get a bit of a feel for the court, and see what tack I should take from there. At the very least it was a little favour I could perform for Taarie and Endarie, though I still had hopes I could make a difference here somehow.

First, though, I had another errand to run. Mother was a devout follower of Mara, and had asked me to stop in at the Temple of Mara in Riften and leave a generous tithe.

The temple was beautiful but humble, and very different to the opulent Temple of the Divines in Solitude. It was very dimly lit — was terrible lighting some sort of fashion, in Riften? — which meant that on entering one’s eyes were drawn to the warmly illuminated statue of the Goddess of Love at the back of the room. As I stepped over the threshold I was immediately bathed in a sense of calm peace. I didn’t even realise how much of a background noise of fretting over the war there had been in my head until it was suddenly stilled. I breathed deeply. The air was dry and musty, but a trace of the sweet smell of incense tickled my nostrils, and something else … like the warm, comforting scent of a mother’s bosom.

A kind-faced Dunmer woman in a priest's robe emerged from the gloom. “Lady Mara bids you welcome to Her Benevolence. What is it you seek, my child?”

“I have her a tithe, for the temple,” I said softly. Somehow this place invited lowered voices. “From my mother, in High Rock.”

The priestess took my outstretched purse, and made it disappear into her robes with a word of thanks. I nodded to her. “I … suppose I’ll be going now, then. Thank you, Mother.”

“Wait.” She gave me a strange, searching look, her eyes moving slowly over every inch of my face. “I see … something in you …”

I bore her scrutiny uncomfortably. “What is it?”

“Yes … yes. My daughter, this is an auspicious day indeed. Your mother’s gift is welcome, but I believe your presence here today is more than mere happenstance, and is by far the greater gift of the two.” I furrowed my brow, confused.

“Lady Mara has a task for you,” she continued. “You are to act as Her hands in the world, and explore the facets of the Infinite Jewel to prove your worthiness to receive Her blessing.”

I didn’t understand. “The infinite jewel? Lady Mara’s blessing? What do you mean?” Did this have anything to do with what had happened with Sheogorath? The Mad God’s laughter still touched my dreams, though distance from Solitude had helped, somewhat.

The priestess sighed. “ _Love_ , child. The Infinite Jewel is _love_. I swear, there is no poetry left in this world. Mother Mara wishes you to help some of Her children resolve their matters of the heart.”

“… Oh.” I felt a bit stupid. Also rather uncertain — I had very little experience in anything to do with romance or relationships. Was I really the most … _qualified_ candidate for this task? Nevertheless, I felt I owed the Divines a favour, and apparently Lady Mara wanted me, so … I supposed I would just have to do my best, and hope things turned out all right.

“Just tell me what to do.”

* * *

Much of my life in High Rock had been spent in the residences of ruling nobles. I’d seen palaces, castles and keeps of every kind, from those enchanting and art-filled as the Blue Palace to stark, martial places that brooded over the surrounding landscape. Some I had loved and admired, and regretting leaving behind when returning home. Others had felt like prisons, where I had chafed at every minute spent while waiting for Father to conclude whatever business of state had been the purpose of the visit. None, however, had left me with the feeling of unfulfilled promise and frustrated regret as Mistveil Keep. Like Riften itself it had clearly once been stately and beautiful — could be, still — but had been so thoroughly neglected that it reminded me of nothing more than a master's painting hung crookedly in a cheap frame, left to gather dust in a back room. As I waited for my audience with Jarl Laila Law-Giver I examined the crumbling stonework and ugly tapestries of her throneroom and worked very hard not to wrinkle my nose.

“The court calls … Kirilee, of Solitude,” drawled a nasty-looking Bosmer woman I had learned was Jarl Laila’s steward. She walked around as though there was constantly a bad smell under her nose, and my unfavourable initial impression had intensified with each interaction of hers I observed. She was every inch the bully and seemed to delight in finding petty, spiteful ways to make the lives of those around her more difficult.

I pointedly ignored her as I swept up to the Jarl’s throne and dropped into a low curtsey. Though I was reminded of my audience with Elisif a fortnight before, the two situations — and women — could not have been more different. Jarl Laila Law-Giver was no young, art-loving girl grieving the loss of her beloved. She was instead a tall matronly woman in her middle years, settled and comfortable and assured of her rule. She exuded an air of lazy confidence — false confidence, I knew; for from her manner I doubted very much that this woman realised that she was not, in fact, the most powerful woman in the city she supposedly ruled.

“Oh, I know who you are,” she said suddenly, after I had announced my intention. “You’re that bard. I’ve heard about you. You’re quite good, apparently.”

“You flatter me, my Jarl,” I said, dropping my eyes. I secretly glowed, however — nothing made a musician feel so fine as hearing that others had been praising her music.

“How about a song, then? It’s been far too long since I’ve heard good music. Bards don’t seem to like travelling as far as Riften lately, for some reason. If I like what I hear I’ll hire you to accompany my dinner tonight.”

My heart leapt. An appointment playing for a jarl? This would do wonders for growing my name! I composed a flowery acceptance, and unpacked and tuned my lute while Laila saw her next petitioner.

I found myself growing unexpectedly nervous as I gently plucked the strings and adjusted the pegs. This was perhaps my first real test. Tavern patrons were hardly the most discriminating of audiences, and while I had played for many nobles back home of a higher rank than one of Skyrim’s jarls … this would be my first performance for someone of rank and importance where I wasn’t sheltered from criticism by my own name and titles. Was I really as good as I thought? It was time to find out.

I settled into my performing posture and took a few deep breaths to still myself. “Do you have any requests?” I asked, turning to the Jarl.

“How about you sing me your favourite song,” she said with an indulgent smile.

Many musicians hated being met with that particular line, but I had never minded. I nodded to her, and said, “Very well, my Jarl. This is a tune by Leliana Goldwine, called _Nightingale’s Eyes_.”

A hum of chatter initially filled the hall, but I looped the introduction to the song twice, and had complete silence by the time I launched into the first verse. I had been worried my lute and voice would be lost in the large, open hall, but was delighted to instead find that the barely-decorated stone walls were actually wonderfully resonant, and my voice carried clear as a bell. I relaxed. I could do this. And indeed, as the last notes of my lute faded away there were a few moments of hushed silence before the applause.

That silence was the true compliment my performance had earned. Applause was learned; silence came from the heart.

“Oh, bravo, bravo!” said Laila, her voice far warmer than it had been before. “Yes, you’ll do perfectly. Be back here at six. Anuriel will meet you at the front.”

I swept into a curtsey. “Thank you, my Jarl. I am honoured to have impressed.”

* * *

Talen-Jei and Meeko were both rather put out that I would be spending my evening at the Keep, but I could not have been more thrilled. This was exactly the lucky break I’d been hoping for. I spent a long time making sure my appearance was as perfect as I could make it, and shortly before six had presented myself to the steward Anuriel and been ushered, not into the enormous hall, but rather a small, private dining-chamber. To my horror I soon realised I had been hired to play for an intimate dinner between Laila Law-Giver and Maven Black-Briar.

Maven gave me a very cold, calculating look as she walked into the room. Laila had not yet arrived. “So, it’s you again. My, my, how quickly you’re moving up in the world. Yesterday an unknown in a dingy inn … today an invited musician at a jarl’s private dinner. What will tomorrow bring, I wonder?” She narrowed her eyes. Luckily, I was spared having to provide an answer by the appearance of the Jarl, who swept into the room with a flurry of mauve-coloured skirts.

“Oh, wonderful, you’re here! Maven, dear, this is Kirilee: a simply _wonderful_ find that providence has just dropped right into my lap.”

“Has it, now,” Maven said, her eyes still on me. “Where did you say you were from — _Kirilee_ , was it?”

I felt a little flutter of fear. An entirely too knowing look glinted in her eye — she had clearly noted the lack of a surname. “High Rock. Daggerfall.”

“My. You _are_ a long way from home.”

“And lucky for us she is!” Laila said boisterously. “You’ll see in a moment, my dear, she really is a wonderful talent. Now, can I offer you red or white? I presume you have enough of mead during the day!” She chuckled to herself, but from the way Maven’s lips tightened I gathered this was a very old, very worn-out joke.

I began my program as they took their seats. No vocal works, for a setting like this — with only two guests, it would have been too distracting to hear a third voice in the background — so I instead worked carefully through a double set of my favourite pieces from the Breton canon. If either of them recognised the music they didn’t comment on it, and I was in fact firmly ignored after those first few sentences at the beginning of the evening.

What I overhead while I played was both worrying and reassuring. To my surprise, I learned that Laila herself seemed like a more or less kindhearted, good-natured ruler who genuinely cared about her people. However, she counted Maven as one of her closest friends, and didn’t seem to have the wherewithal to see through the woman’s smokescreen, or to realise how deftly she was being manipulated. She seemed completely unaware of what was going on under her perfumed nose; entirely unable to smell the reek of corruption in her city.

 _Mara’s mercy,_ I thought, as I listened to Maven play Laila like a fiddle, _are all of Skyrim’s ruling nobles this … obtuse? Surely not._ I knew the Game of Houses was not really played here, as it was back home, but surely the nobility must receive _some_ training in the ins and outs of bandying words, and how to, well, _not_ get manipulated by outside forces. _Surely_.

I was dismissed once the two women withdrew for the night, and was deep in thought as I packed up my lute and headed back to the inn. Emotions warred within me. Part of me felt proud and elated. Jarl Laila had been undeniably impressed by both my music and my demeanour. She already spoke of having me play for her again sometime, and I swelled with pride at the knowledge that I _could_ stand on my own two feet, musically speaking. I had taken my first steps towards fame and recognition — and without even an association with the College to lend me weight! I hefted the rather ugly necklace Laila had gifted me in one hand. This, I had won all on my own.

However, I couldn’t help worrying about the sorry state of Riften, and just how terribly blind Jarl Laila was to it. She was so deep in Maven’s pocket, placed so much trust in the dreadful woman, that I didn’t see how she could be brought to her senses. There must be _something_ that could be done. These weren’t my people, true — but who else was there? Mjoll the Lioness’ crusade against the corruption in the city certainly seemed to be going nowhere. And besides which, even if I was currently incognito, so to speak, I was still a duke’s daughter. I still had a responsibility, a duty, to help those less fortunate. Only … what could I do?

I didn’t have answers. But, I thought, as I tucked myself into the Bee and Barb’s scratchy sheets, Father would say that I was at least asking the right kind of questions.


	7. An Unusual Prisoner

I was eating a languid breakfast in the Bee and Barb when I heard the words that would forever change my life.

“Hey Gunnar, you been to see that crazy cat yet?”

A shard of ice pierced my chest. Crazy cat? Had Sheogorath chased me all the way to the opposite side of the province? I tried to chew my toast more quietly, and eavesdropped as intently as I could.

“Yeah. Someone oughta put that poor bastard outta his misery, afore he does it hisself.”

“Pitiful.”

“Pathetic.”

My fear became veined through with concern. This poor creature must be deep in the Mad God’s grip indeed. To my annoyance, however, the pair of men seemed to have no more to say on the matter, and I didn’t want to admit to them that I’d been eavesdropping. Instead, once they’d left I turned to Talen-Jei.

“Talen-Jei, do you know anything about some ‘crazy cat’ in the city?”

He looked up from the potatoes he was peeling. “Oh, yes. I’m surprised you haven’t heard yourself — but I suppose you were at the Keep last night. It’s very sad, actually. There’s a purple Khajiit, name of Inigo, who’s been around the area for a while now. The mercenary sort. Well, yesterday he apparently turned up at the jail demanding to be locked up. He claimed he’d committed a murder, but as there was no body or evidence of any such thing, they tried to turn him away. Only he insisted. In the end he apparently paid the guards a great deal of money to lock him up. He’s been shouting that his victim would come and kill him, like he deserved. Man’s distraught, suicidal, even.” Talen-Jei shrugged. “Never seemed the crazy type to me. The only thing that seemed different between him and any other bog-standard Khajiit was the colour of his fur.” He returned to peeling his potatoes.

My mind raced. An otherwise normal person suddenly acting mad the day after I arrived in the city? It couldn’t be a coincidence. This was my fault. Sheogorath was pursuing me, furious I’d escaped, and using others as His pawns to do it. I felt an enormous twist of guilt in my stomach. This poor Khajiit was my responsibility, now. I had to go and see him — perhaps I could help, somehow? Bestow upon him some of the protection the Divines had given me? I tried to bring to mind the spell I had used to escape the Mad God, but though I could remember casting the spell, I had no memory of the forms involved. Bother. Well, I’d just have to find another way. Perhaps Mara’s ‘blessing’ after completing Her task could be applied to him, rather than me, and cleanse his mind that way.

I set down the mug I’d lifted halfway to my face. I was getting ahead of myself. First, I needed to see this Khajiit — Inigo — for myself, and see exactly what was going on. It _was_ still possible that this was all actually a coincidence, but my instincts said it wasn’t.

“Thanks, Talen-Jei. At the jail, you said?” I stood up, dropping the last of my toast to Meeko.

“Yes, beside the Keep. You’re not going to go ogle him too? The poor man’s not a creature in a menagerie.”

“No. I’m going to see whether I can help.”

The corner of Talen-Jei’s mouth twitched. “Of course you are.”

* * *

I strode through the dark corridors of the Riften jail. Really, they could have built this place aboveground — criminals they may be, but they still deserved to see the sun and smell fresh air. One more thing to add to the list for Laila.

“There he is,” said the guard who had escorted me, pointing.

I blinked. “Nobody mentioned he was naked.”

“We offered him prison clothes, but he didn’t want them. Crazy cat.”

My blush faded away as I gazed at the Khajiit, embarrassment giving way to pity. I had never seen a more wretched-looking person. He crouched in the corner of his cell, head bowed, arms hanging limply over his knees. As Talen-Jei had said, his fur was a brilliant blue-purple colour, spotted with darker rosettes. I’d never seen anything like it. It was beautiful.

“Well, give me a holler when you’re done,” the guard said easily. “We don’t leave him alone. Looks bad, if a prisoner offs himself.”

I bristled at the casual and dismissive way he spoke of a man so deep in despair that he might hurt himself. “Thank you. I will.”

The guard disappeared back down the corridor, and I warily approached the cell. As though it weighed a hundred pounds, the Khajiit lifted his head, and when his gaze fell on me, his great amber eyes widened. He stood up and strode over to the bars. I was startled to see his face was marred by several long, thin scars, as though he'd been heavily clawed, and his eyes were swimming with tears.

“Come to kill me at last, have you? Thank the Moons, I can bear the guilt no longer.”

_What?_

“What? No! Of course I haven’t come to kill you.” 

The Khajiit gripped the bars. “I know I must die. I have been waiting for you to come.”

“Why do you think that?” I spoke gently and soothingly, as to the mentally feeble, but it struck me: this man didn’t seem mad. Distraught, yes, but there was none of that indefinable aura of … not being quite there that I had felt when talking to the old Bosmer, or others like him I had met at home. And Meeko wasn’t going wild the way he had in the Blue Palace. But even so — this Khajiit was speaking as though he recognised me, which was an impossibility. Were there perhaps different … flavours of madness?

His eyes were tortured. “I am in no mood for jokes. Strike me down! Take your revenge!” He lifted his chin up, as though offering his throat to be slit. I stared at him, horrified.

“What in Oblivion are you talking about? Why would I want revenge?”

“You don’t remember? Ah, that is my fault also. I am your so-called friend Inigo. I was the one who killed you. … I tried, anyway.” His voice broke, and the tears spilled over his furry cheeks.

“Wh— _what_?”

Eyes wild, he seized the bars in front of him. I flinched. “What do you mean, what? I am guilty!” he cried, shaking the bars. “Kill me!” Meeko whined, and pawed at Inigo’s furry leg through the bars.

“Inigo. Inigo! Please, stop. How could you possibly have tried to kill me? I’ve never seen you before in my life, I swear!”

“You have lost your memory, I see —”

“No, I haven’t. I have an excellent memory, especially for faces. I promise you I’m not who you think I am. Where do you even think we met?”

He blinked away tears. “I see that I must relive it again. We met on a job.”

“A job? What job?”

“The … the killing kind.” A thrill of horror ran through me. Who was this man? “We were hired by a lord called Dupan to kill his brothers.”

I shook my head. “Inigo, I’m a _musician_. I’ve never hurt a soul, let alone taken a contract to kill someone’s brothers. And I don’t know anyone named Dupan.”

“No — no, it has to be you! With his brothers gone, Dupan would inherit a great fortune, and promised us much gold. Do you remember none of this?” he wailed. “He told me if only one of us returned then that one would get the full reward. I was hooked on skooma! I did not know what I was doing! You must remember, you must!” He was shaking and sobbing.

I was frozen in place. What could I do, what could I do? The fact that he’d killed before seemed secondary beside the incalculable grief and pain this poor, tortured soul was currently enduring. I no longer thought this had anything to do with Sheogorath. This was a different kind of madness.

I reached out a trembling hand and placed it over his. I’d never touched a Khajiit before — his fur was just as thick and soft as Meeko’s. The touch seemed to startle him into silence. He stared at me with pleading, empty eyes.

“Inigo. I’m not going to kill you.”

“Then I will do it myse—”

“No!” I cast about wildly, pushing aside my questions about why he was so convinced _I_ was the one he had tried to kill. That didn’t matter right now. “Why don’t you … come with me? You can … work off your debt to, er, me, by … by protecting me. Yes. I’m no fighter, you see, and Skyrim is such a dangerous place …”

Inigo’s eyes lit up with a sudden fire. “Yes! I will protect you, or die trying! Yes! I accept! I feel lighter in my heart now you have given me this opportunity! It will be like old times.” He smiled, and it was like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. My heart broke.

“Yes. Just like — just like old times. Only … please don’t get yourself killed.”

Inigo gathered his few possessions from the cell and I led him to the astonished guard, who checked out his weapons and armour. I knew nothing about such things, but thought his weapons were extraordinarily beautiful: an intricately carved and embellished bow and sword in ebony and silver, with strange, exotic lines. While Inigo dressed himself I glanced sideways at Meeko.

“Is he … safe, boy?” I muttered under my breath. “No … _you know what_?”

Meeko barked and wagged his tail, then trotted over to where Inigo was pulling on a boot and licked him on the hand. In response Inigo laughed and scratched him thoroughly behind the ears, to Meeko’s evident pleasure. I watched them, arms folded. Meeko was an exceptionally good judge of character. And he clearly didn’t sense Sheogorath’s taint on my new … bodyguard? Retainer?

But … he was a killer. And a former skooma addict. At least I knew he must have given that up — he wouldn’t have lasted a full day in a cell without withdrawal symptoms, if he was still using the drug. Even so, could I trust him? Would he turn on me, as he already thought he had once before?

 _No,_ I thought to myself, as I watched him laughingly tease Meeko with one of his bootlaces. _No, that remorse was genuine. He thinks he owes me a life-debt, for whatever reason. I can trust that he won’t knife me in my sleep. I think._

Did I _want_ a killer as a travelling companion though?

 _Would you rather he killed_ himself _? It’s pretty clear you’re the only thing standing between him and suicide._

That much was true, at least. I couldn’t offer him salvation then just abandon him. Perhaps this was my chance to make a difference, as I’d been so fervently saying I wanted to do. Riften’s problems may have been out of my reach for the time being, but one man? Him, perhaps, I could help; little though I knew how. But if travelling with me could help ease his burdens, give him something to live for until he rediscovered a reason of his own? Well, then I would just have to overcome my distaste at keeping company with a murderer. He may not have been touched by Sheogorath, but he was still my responsibility. And I certainly _would_ feel safer travelling with someone who knew how to handle himself in a fight.

I sighed. I’d make it work, somehow. For now.

Inigo stood up, fully dressed, and smiled broadly at me. His posture was straighter, his bearing more confident and assured. A completely different person faced me from the broken wretch who had sobbed at me to kill him from the other side of a cell’s bars. He’d even threaded some beads through his hair.

“Shall we go?”

“Certainly.” I looked up at his face in profile as we walked side by side out of the prison. He had the air of a man who had unexpectedly uncovered the most precious treasure imaginable, right at the point where he had given it up for lost. “I’m Kirilee, by the way. … Though of course you already knew that, right?”

His mouth quirked. “Of course.”

We stepped out into the sunshine. “So, Inigo, do you like music …?”

* * *

As it turned out, Inigo did like music. Loved it, in fact; though in a very different way than I did. For me music was my craft, which I worked at meticulously to hone and perfect. For Inigo it was his purest and most joyful method of self-expression. He loved to sing, and particularly enjoyed making up songs — some he had properly composed, but most often he liked to come up with little nonsense ditties on the spot. All of them had the exact same melody, which his voice only vaguely managed to sketch out, and half the time the words didn’t even make sense. Nevertheless, as someone who had never composed a single line of music or poetry without immediately casting it into the fire, I was impressed by his confidence and the simple, sweet joy he took in it.

I had plenty of time to appreciate his singing, as he particularly liked to sing while walking; and the next morning we had set out on foot for Ivarstead, where the person Mara wanted me to help apparently lived. I had wanted to take a carriage, but there were none available, and Inigo had insisted that it was a stunning walk through the forest and ‘not too far away’.

“So just how far is ‘not too far’?” I asked through gritted teeth, after we’d been walking for what felt like several hours. I was hungry, and getting terrible blisters on my feet. My boots, while very fashionable, had not been designed for endless walking on uneven roads and dirt paths.

“We should arrive by nightfall.”

“ _What_? I thought you said it wasn’t that far!”

“It is not. It is only a single day’s walk away.” Inigo’s face broke into a grin. “Do not tell me that is a difficult task for you?”

“You know very well I like to spend my time in _cities_ , not trudging through the wilderness” I said waspishly. My eyes narrowed. “Wait. You set this up on purpose, didn’t you?” His broad, knowing grin told me everything I needed to, and I glared at him in outrage.

His eyes twinkled. “I paid the carriage driver to hide a little way down the road. You will thank me for this later. It _is_ a beautiful day, in the beautiful forest. Is it not pleasant to enjoy it to its fullest on our own two feet, rather than from the back of a dusty carriage?” He turned to Meeko. “I apologise, my friend. Four feet.”

My glare intensified. Yes, I supposed the forest _was_ nice, but it would have looked just as nice from the comfortable elevation of a carriage. Away from the bugs, and dirt. A _whole day’s walking_? I groaned, then winced.

“Stop for a moment. Let me see if I can do something about these blisters.”

Looking around for the cleanest tree-stump I could find, I finally settled on a mostly moss- and mushroom-free log. I pulled off my boots and socks and winced again at the state of my feet. Inigo watched with interest.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to remember a healing spell. I was taught a simple one almost as soon as I was old enough, in case of emergencies — I haven’t used it for anything other than saddle sores for years, though.” I sorted through forms in my mind. Yes, that was it. I gathered a few simple forms, strung them together, then made the one-handed gesture that would let the spell flow through my fingers and into my aching feet. I wriggled my toes. “Ahh. That’s better.”

“You are a mage?” Inigo asked, as I pulled my socks and boots back on.

“Not really. Every Breton of my rank learns some magic from childhood, but I was never as interested in studying spells as I was in learning the lute.” Among other things, I had told Inigo I was nobly-born the previous night at the inn — it seemed a pointless thing to keep from him, if he was to be travelling with me and protecting me. He’d need to know just what I could — and couldn’t — do for myself. I hadn’t offered him any details, of course, but it was more than I’d shared with anyone else since arriving in Skyrim.

In fact, I’d been surprised at how easily and naturally conversation had flowed between us, and how much I had been prepared to share with him of myself. Perhaps it was the way in which he had treated me from the outset as though we had been friends for years, or the ease with which he made me laugh, or simply the strong, undefinable feeling I got that he was a _good_ man. I found myself very quickly liking him, and falling into an easy companionship over the meal and wine we had shared. It had been all too easy to forget he used to be a hired killer, and I’d had to keep reminding myself: Don’t be so quick to trust him. There is darkness in his past. For Divines’ sake, his adoptive parents were _assassins_!

My instincts warred with my better sense, and as usual, my heart won out over my head. We walked and we talked and I enjoyed the brightly-coloured Khajiit’s company and gentle teasing, and reached after the sense of friendship and connection I felt. I _wanted_ to like him. I _wanted_ to forget all about what he’d said in the cell the day before. And so I ignored my worries, and pushed aside my questions about _how_ and _why_ , and instead simply … let myself enjoy it.

Suddenly both Inigo and Meeko stopped still, Inigo’s carefreeness shifting to wary caution. His tail twitched.

“What is it?”

“Hush,” Inigo muttered. “I think … yes. Wolves.”

The blood drained from my face. _Wolves_? What would we do? Would Inigo protect me, as he had promised?

Inigo drew his bow, then unsheathed his sword and handed it to me.

“But — I can’t —”

“I know you cannot. Do not worry. You will not need to,” he said, his voice low, reassuring. “These wolves will only attack if they see us as easy prey. We will make ourselves look large and fierce, and then they will slink away with tails between their legs. Hold that sword with both hands. Yes, good. In a moment we will stand with our backs together, and then we will make as much noise as we can, and make ourselves look big and fierce and frightening. You can do this, yes? We will not have to fight the wolves unless things go very badly. Which they will not.” He smiled, as if to say, _trust me_. “You are ready?”

“Yes,” I said shakily, though I wasn’t. I could see my hands gripping Inigo’s sword were very pale, and my freckles stood out in sharp relief.

“Good. Meeko, boy, you know what to do too, yes? Good. Very well, friends, on the count of three. One — two — three! Yell and be scary!”

I stood back to back with Inigo, clutching an outstretched sword which was far too heavy for me, and I jumped and yelled and stamped my feet as loudly as I could. I felt ten times the fool — surely this couldn’t work — and then I saw the first approaching wolf and I was so terrified I forgot all about my ridiculous dance. It was huge, at least as big as Meeko, but rangy and lanky with dappled fur of greys, browns and blacks. It had wild, yellow eyes, and seemed to be warily sizing up our little group. A moment later I saw another materialise from the bushes. Then a third. They crept towards me.

“Kirilee!” called Inigo. “Be scary!”

Inigo’s voice gave me strength, and I forced my terrified arms and legs and lungs into action. I yelled and stamped and waved Inigo’s sword about. “Go away, wolves!” I shouted, “Go away! I’m skinny and stringy and would taste terrible! Inigo’s fur would get stuck in your teeth! Go away!” I heard a chuckle from over my shoulder.

And — amazingly — it worked. The wolves regarded us with unblinking eyes for a moment longer, then just as suddenly and silently as they’d appeared, they melted back into the forest. I kept shouting and stomping until Inigo touched me gently on the shoulder and told me I could stop. Breathing heavily, I dropped his sword to the ground.

“Oh no — I’m sorry,” I said, quickly bending over to pick it up again. “I hope I haven’t damaged it — I know you said it was your father’s —”

He smiled gently and took the sword. “It is nothing. It would take more than a little bump to hurt this blade. You did well, my friend. It was your first time facing wolves?”

I nodded. “I’ve seen them in the distance before, back home, but never like that — up close — those eyes, and teeth —” I realised I was shaing. “I’m — I’m sorry —”

Inigo rested a hand on my shoulder. “Do not be sorry. And do not be ashamed. It takes much time and practice to face a battle steadily and without fear. You did very well. Your shouting was very good and fierce! Even though you are very small, the wolves were very frightened of you!”

I took a few deep breaths, and a few gulps of water from Inigo’s proffered waterskin. Meeko had pushed his head under my hand as soon as the wolves were gone, and I scratched his ears as I tried to centre myself. Inigo’s calming words had helped a great deal. I felt soothed and encouraged, particularly after we had managed to escape the encounter without bloodshed.

Once my hands were steady and their usual colour once more I handed Inigo’s waterskin back, and we continued along the path. I couldn’t help scouring the surrounding trees and bushes for further signs of hostile wildlife, pointless though I knew it was, when I was accompanied by Inigo and Meeko’s much more sensitive ears.

“I feel so … useless,” I said softly, after we had been walking for a time.

“What do you mean?”

“We avoided a fight. That time. But what about the next time? What if they hadn’t backed down? Or — or we’re ambushed by bandits?” I quickly sketched out the horrible scene that had played out in the Whiterun tundra. “I was completely helpless. If it wasn’t for Bjorlam, I’d be dead by now.”

“I am sorry, my friend. That sounds like a horrible situation indeed. But you need not be afraid. I am here now, and I will guard you with my life.”

I struggled to explain. “But … I don’t _want_ to feel completely helpless. I don’t want to sit there like a useless sack of potatoes while you or Meeko or whoever else risks their lives for me. I want to _help_.”

Inigo studied me. “You are small, but you are quite graceful, and move well. I could teach you how to use a bow, or perhaps a blade — you would put on muscle in no time.”

I shook my head vigorously. “No. That’s the other part of the problem. I … I don’t know if I could ever actually hurt someone. Not even if they were trying to hurt me, first. Master Lorent tried to have me learn some offensive spells when I was younger, but the whole Destruction school just felt … wrong.” I shuffled uncomfortably. “It’s … it’s just not who I am. I have been working on my magic though, lately,” I said hopefully. “I figured I can at least learn some spells that could … help me escape. But I suppose I could learn some that might help you, too? Spells of healing, and bolstering? I know there are some like that …”

“I am afraid I cannot say. I have no aptitude for magic whatsoever. But … I do have an idea.”

“Oh?” I looked at him expectantly.

“You are a musician, yes? A bard? I have heard stories of warrior bards, men and women who do not join in the fight themselves, but instead aid their allies through song and spell.”

“That would be perfect!” I said, excited. “How does it work?”

“I do not know, precisely. I think they can somehow meld music and magic together, but that is all. Perhaps they would know more at the Bards’ College, in Solitude?”

“Perhaps,” I said shortly. I didn’t want to discuss the College.

Sensing my mood, Inigo didn’t press the issue further, but as we walked I couldn’t help turning the idea over in my head. Finding a way to use music, or magic, or the two in combination to help my friends … this sounded exactly what I needed to learn. Not that I’d ever _seek out_ battle, I thought hurriedly. But I couldn’t deny that I’d feel much better about travelling the increasingly-dangerous roads if I knew I had some tricks up my sleeve, and wouldn’t wholly be a burden to those around me. I felt grateful to Inigo for suggesting it, and then felt an overwhelming rush of gratitude for everything he’d done and said over the past half hour. He hadn’t just protected me against the wolves, he’d helped me feel like the whole thing was … okay. Not a big deal. I hadn’t fallen to pieces, as I knew I would have otherwise. He had been so calm, and warm, and encouraging. And then, afterwards, when I’d said I felt inadequate? He hadn’t told me it wasn’t my _place_ to find a way to contribute. He hadn’t said it was beneath my station, or it wasn’t _safe_ or _proper_. He’d just offered solutions until I found one I liked, confident in his assumption that anything I set my mind to, I could accomplish. I’d never been treated that way before. By anyone.

And as we walked side by side under the glorious golden canopy, I suddenly realised that while I might need a bodyguard, what I needed even more was a _friend_. I looked sideways under my lashes at Inigo, who was loudly telling Meeko that it was very important the dog understand that he was only my number two furry companion, while he, Inigo, was number one.

Inigo had been a killer. Had been an addict. Had done things he’d been too ashamed to talk about, when I had gingerly probed at his past. But … all that was in the past. Hadn’t I come to Skyrim exactly because I wanted a new beginning as well? To not be judged based on where I had come from, but on who I was now?

Perhaps I could best help Inigo by giving him the same thing I wanted for myself. Perhaps it didn’t matter who he had been, or why he had fixated on me. Perhaps what mattered was that, in the here and now, he was kind and patient and offering me a precious gift; one which I wasn’t sure I could have turned down even if I wanted to.

Friendship.


	8. The Magic Flute

“That was far easier than I thought,” I remarked to Inigo on the carriage back to Riften the next day. “Who’d have thought all that was needed was someone to prod a fisherman into just … saying how he felt? I can’t believe that vapid girl got a literal Divine involved before just, you know, _talking to him_.” I shook my head. The priestess, Mother Dinya Balu, had led me to expect a love triangle in Ivarstead. It hadn’t been hard to tease apart that the actual heart of the matter was that Fastred, the young girl who had petitioned Mara for aid, didn’t so much have a fickle heart as a complete and utter lack of sense. All it had taken for her to toss the awful bard she’d been flirting with was to hear that the village’s fisherman Klimmek did, in fact, care for her more than he did for fish. I was inordinately relieved. I had loathed the slimy Imperial bard from the moment he had opened his smarmy mouth, doubly so when I’d heard him actually play.

“Why did you expect it to be difficult?”

“Well, this is apparently part of a test to prove my worthiness to receive Mara’s blessing, or something like that. I expected such a test to be, well … testing.”

Inigo leaned back in his seat, bathing his face in the autumn sun. “Perhaps the test is not in completing the task itself, but in how you did so? Or perhaps it is actually about teaching you something?”

I snorted. “What was I supposed to learn from that? That you should be honest, and talk about your feelings? What a shocking revelation. That it’s better to be brave and risk rejection than to remain silent and let opportunity slip through your fingers …” I gave a guilty little start. In a sense, that was exactly what I wasn’t doing with Inigo. I was keeping my true identity, my true self hidden from him — but no, that was ridiculous. The situation with Fastred was completely different. I glanced across the carriage at Inigo, hoping he hadn’t noticed my sudden distraction, and was surprised to see him looking a little uncomfortable himself. I supposed I wasn’t the only one keeping things back.

Nevertheless, I felt pleased and a little proud to have solved the first of Mara’s tasks so quickly and thoroughly. On arriving back to Riften I headed straight to the Temple of Mara, and announced my success to a gently smiling Mother Balu. Fastred and Klimmek were probably kissing each other senseless at that very moment.

“How wonderful!” she beamed. “Like the sea, their love roils and swells, but brings life and nourishment to all. Are you ready for your next task?”

“Certainly, Mother,” I replied, standing tall. Well, as tall as I was able.

“Embers lie nestled in stone, needing only fuel to bloom to a flame that will warm all around them,” she intoned. “Go to Markarth. There you will find Calcelmo; wise, acid and reclusive. Help him to emerge and state his intentions. This is the prayer heard by the Goddess and relayed to her servants.”

It took a lot of effort not to groan aloud. Markarth? That was on the opposite side of the province!

I sighed. “Yes, Mother. I will see it done.”

“Very good, daughter. The dawn surely opens upon you. Bear its light that all may see.”

* * *

“So, are we bound for Markarth?” Inigo asked, when I relayed to him what Mother Balu had said. We were seated in the Bee and Barb, eating supper before I was due to perform, and I was pointedly ignoring the scuffle between two of the inn’s patrons behind us. Mara’s mercy, they were making a lot of noise. I raised my voice.

“No. Not yet, anyway. I’m sick to death of spending every other day on the road. The man’s an Altmer, a few more days won’t even register against a lifespan like his. Besides …” I looked around the common room at all the haggard, weary faces. “I … feel like I want to stay here for a little while. Do some good. Two such accomplished and capable people as us should be able to make at least a little dent in Riften’s troubles, right?”

I smiled at Inigo over my wine. Secretly, I had another reason for wanting to help the people of Riften. Though Inigo had mostly been cheerful and animated over the previous few days, every so often the mask had slipped and he had lapsed into moody, broody silences. I had an idea that doing some work in service of others might help him feel that he really was turning over a new leaf, and really could be a better person than he had been. Whoever that was — he still wasn’t keen on discussing his past, and I knew little more than I had learned the first night, when he had told me his whole family was dead and he used to be a bandit. I assumed the two were linked, but didn’t know exactly how.

“Very well,” Inigo said. “I cannot say I am sorry to be spending more time in this wonderful city.”

From the table next to ours I could hear Hemming Black-Briar, Maven’s eldest, trying to convince Talen-Jei to sign on as his valet, insisting that ‘his people’ were used to indentured servitude. Talen-Jei looked like he was very close to hitting the disgusting man.

“… Yes. It’s, er, wonderful indeed. I … love it here.”

And so over the following days we became the city’s odd-job-people. We worked tirelessly in assisting with every menial little favour that needed doing, Meeko trotting at our side: we ran letters and deliveries around town and to the neighbouring farms and village. I used my new cantrips to catch fish, as well as collect insects and flowers, Inigo teaching me which ones were valuable to healers and alchemists. We handed out pamphlets for Mother Balu. We helped a stableman pay off his minor but crippling debt. We plotted with Talen-Jei about how he would propose to Keerava. We helped an Argonian woman break free of her skooma habit (Inigo spent the rest of the day surly and unresponsive). We bought books for the city’s orphans, and began to teach them how to read.

Most of all, though, we listened. We talked to the people, got to know them, and listened to their joys and sorrows and sufferings. With this, we tried to show them that they weren’t alone; that someone _did_ care. Father had taught me the power of a sympathetic ear and the words ‘I understand’ from a very young age. I now passed this power on to Inigo — and I could see it was working. He blossomed under the people’s gratitude and appreciation, and I could see the darkness in his eyes gradually retreating further and further.

 _Believe in this,_ I thought fiercely as I watched him show one of the city’s urchins, a clever young girl named Olette, how to do a coin trick. _Believe this is who you can be._

I hadn’t forgotten Inigo’s suggestion about learning how to do music-magic, and thought a great deal about how I could begin explorations into the discipline myself. Unfortunately Riften’s court wizard, Wylandriah, knew no more about it than Inigo, but after a few days of furious thinking I had an idea, and emerged triumphant from her office with a sheet covered in complex forms copied down in her spidery handwriting. I had also bought a cheap little wooden flute from the marketplace — little more than a whistle, really, but I had liked the carved flowers decorating it — and spent the better part of the next day trying to enchant it with the set of forms Wylandriah had given me. They were forms of binding and holding; forms far too complex for me to master myself just yet, but forms that I hoped I could use to ensorcell my new little flute instead. I was hoping to enchant it so that when I blew I could perhaps hold someone immobile while Inigo or Meeko dealt with them. It wasn’t a use of magic I was at all familiar with, and I didn't really know what I was doing — I just fumbled through based on half-remembered lessons with Master Lorent — but to my great astonishment, it actually seemed to work. At least, it worked on Inigo and Meeko, when we tested it out in a clearing just outside the city walls.

“This is wonderful!” Inigo said, grinning broadly and shaking out his arms. “I could not move a whisker, no matter how hard I tried!”

“Yes …” I said hesitantly, “though it doesn’t work exactly how I thought it would. From what Master Lorent told me, when you enchant something it’s supposed to just … work. But I had to sort of … extend my will through the flute, somehow, I think? If I just blew nothing happened — I had to actively concentrate on holding you and Meeko, and I could feel you pushing against it. Maybe I did it wrong?”

Inigo waved a dismissive hand. “Who cares? It does what you want it to, does it not?”

“Only to you and Meeko. You who are my _friends_ , and _aren’t_ actively trying to kill me,” I pointed out. “We won’t know whether it really works or not until we’re attacked for real. … Something for which I’m prepared to wait forever. If I’m honest, I’d rather never actually find out whether this thing works as it should.”

Unfortunately, however, I did not get my wish; and the opportunity to test out my new ‘battle flute’, as Inigo dubbed it, came all too soon.

We had been back from Ivarstead nearly a full week when I was summoned to play at Mistveil Keep again. This time I was performing for Jarl Laila and a few visiting nobles, few of whom spared me a second glance. Laila herself treated me much as one might a favoured dog, heaping me with patronising praise, and I had to work hard to soothe my simmering irritation with the silly, vacuous woman. _Remember, she doesn’t know you outrank everyone in this room,_ I reminded myself. _She’s treating you_ well _for an unknown, unimportant musician. She summoned you back. She’s paying you well, and you’ve clearly won her favour. This is a victory. Treat it as such._

Even so, it was difficult to quell my anger that the Jarl feasted and gossipped happily while her people suffered, and I left the Keep in far worse a temper than propriety dictated. Thankfully Laila accepted my explanation of a stomach-ache without question.

I stalked furiously through the dark city. How _dare_ she call herself a ruler? Did she ever even set foot outside her stupid, gloomy keep? Her sons seemed no better — I had only seen them from a distance, but they seemed just as distant and aloof as their mother. How dare they all. They had a _responsibility_.

I was so wrapped up in fuming about the Law-Givers that I didn’t even notice the thief until he was standing right in front of me, dagger drawn. I drew up short.

“Brave, wandering about after dark, all alone, in such a fancy dress,” he smirked. “Stupid, but brave. Hand over all your valuables, quick-like. I’ve got a busy night lined up.”

Lifting my chin, I stared him down. I was still too angry to be frightened. “Stupid? What about you, robbing someone in full view of the Keep? All it would take is one scream and the guards would come running.”

The thief’s smirk widened. I noticed he was wearing dark-stained leather armour which had the feel of a uniform. “Scream all you like. More fool you if you think it’ll achieve anything except give you a sore throat. We’re in _Riften_ , love. My organisation _owns_ this place.”

I felt my first spike of fear. Thieves’ Guild. I’d heard the whispers, of course, but hadn’t _really_ believed a criminal organisation could openly hold a whole city in the palm of its hand. Clearly I’d been wrong.

“All right,” I said shakily. “I’m not carrying much but — but the money the Jarl gave me is in my lute-case. Give me a moment and I’ll retrieve it for you.”

“Take your time,” the man said. He twirled his dagger between his fingers. Obviously he didn’t fear I could do anything more threatening than throw a shoe at him — and why should he? I was a small, weak, unarmed woman. Helpless.

I unslung my lute case from my back and set it on the ground. My trembling fingers undid the clasps, and reached for the purse from the Jarl — but then my eyes fell on the little engraved flute. I began to shake harder. Was I really considering this? If it didn’t work I’d be in even worse a position than I was now.

But I had to try. I was sick of feeling weak and helpless.

“What’s taking you?” said the thief. “Wondering whether you can bludgeon me with your lute? I promise you my skull’s very —”

He never finished his sentence. I had fumbled the flute to my lips, taken an enormous breath, and blown. There was no melody, just a long, pure, piercing tone — a tone through which I pushed my will, as iron-hard and strong as I could make it, and wrapped it around the laughing thief. _Hold,_ I commanded him, _Stop moving. You cannot move. I have you._ I felt his own will battering against my magic; furious, desperate. But my will overpowered his, and my magic held. _He_ was held. An overwhelming feeling of power surged through me. I _had_ him.

As my lungs began to empty, however, I started to have serious misgivings about my plan. What now? Eventually I’d have to breathe. I could probably snatch a breath quickly enough to recapture him before he could act, but then what? Keep blowing until I ran out of strength? This was Riften, after all; nobody ventured out to investigate odd noises in the night. My only hope was that someone in the Keep might find the noise annoying enough to send out a guard to investigate.

My lungs began to burn. I would need to breathe again very soon. Any moment now. Perhaps I could squeeze out just a few more sec—

An arrow sprouted from the man’s neck, and he fell bonelessly to the ground. A moment later another pierced his heart. My magic evaporated — I couldn’t hold a dead person.

The flute fell from my lips. I stared at the thief in incomprehension. Suddenly I heard a voice calling, “Kirilee! Kirilee, are you well?” and then a deep, frantic barking.

Inigo and Meeko had come for me.

I fell, sobbing, into Inigo’s arms. He hesitated for a moment, then wrapped his strong, furry arms around me and held me tightly to him. “It is all right,” he muttered. “You are safe. I am here.” Meeko pushed his flank against my legs, whining.

“I — I — I —” I couldn’t form words, couldn’t vocalise the overpowering mix of fear, relief and horror coursing through me. I was safe. He was dead. I was safe. Inigo killed him. I glanced sideways at the sprawled body, softly illuminated by the lantern overhead, then immediately squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my face into Inigo’s chest.

“Meeko heard your flute from the Bee and Barb. We came as quickly as we could. I am sorry; I should have come to meet you at the Keep. I did not know the Guild had gotten so bold. Your flute — it worked?”

I took a shaky breath and broke free from Inigo’s encircling arms. “It worked,” I said thickly. “He couldn’t even talk. I caught him mid-sentence. It was …”

_Heady. Intoxicating. Terrifying._

“… useful.”

Inigo held me at arm’s length, examining me, then pulled me back into a hug. “I was so frightened. I thought for a moment …” I noticed his voice was at least as shaky as my own. “… I do not know what I would have done, had I failed you again. I am so sorry. I will do better.”

“It’s okay, Inigo. I’m okay. You came in time. I’m fine. Thank you for saving me.” I gave him a weak smile, then dropped to the ground and hugged Meeko tightly around the neck. “Thank you, too, boy. I’ll buy you as many treats as you can stomach when we get back to Solitude.”

“Solitude?” Inigo said.

I stood, and shouldered my lute case again. I very determinedly did not look at the cooling body just a few feet away.

“Yes. Solitude. I think … I think I’ve had enough of Riften. It’s time to go home.”


	9. Bad Vibrations

Returning to Solitude really did feel like coming home. Corpulus roared a welcome from behind the bar causing half the patrons in the inn to jump, Sorex pulled me into an enveloping hug, and Minette jumped up and down squealing, “Did you bring me a present? Did you bring me a present?”

“I did,” I laughed, disentangling myself from Sorex’s burly arms and reaching into my pack. I pulled out a carefully stoppered bottle. “This is a specialty drink invented by Talen-Jei, the Bee and Barb’s bartender. He calls it the Cliff Racer. Nobody else in Skyrim makes it.”

“Ooooh!” Minette’s eyes lit up, and she eagerly took the bottle from my hands. “He won’t be the only one for long. Bet you I can figure out what it’s made of by tomorrow.”

“I won’t take that bet. Talen-Jei said it would take you at least a week to figure out, but I told him he was underestimating you.” Minette said a quick thanks, her eyes never leaving the bottle, then raced away to her room to begin experimenting. I smiled after her a little sadly. Minette had far more enthusiasm for running an inn than Sorex, who wanted to travel the world, but Corpulus was adamant his daughter would not inherit the Skeever.

“Nice of old Talen, to let you have that,” Corpulus said. “He’s always been very protective of his secret recipes. You must’ve made quite an impression.”

“Yes, he made it very clear just how big an exception he was making. And you could certainly say that,” I smiled secretively. Talen-Jei and Keerava had been very disappointed to hear I was returning to Solitude. They had in fact been planning on offering me a permanent residency in the Bee and Barb, they had said — a simply amazing opportunity, but one I’d turned down. I had my sights set higher than performing every night in the same inn. And I definitely couldn’t imagine settling in Riften, much as Inigo inexplicably loved the city.

“Who’s your friend?” Corpulus asked, his eyes alighting on Inigo.

“This is Inigo. We met in Riften — he’ll be taking a room here too, if you don’t mind?”

Corpulus leaned across the bar to shake Inigo’s hand. “Of course. Any friend of Kirilee’s is a friend of mine. He won’t be sharing your room, then?”

First I was startled, then aghast. We hadn’t discussed it, but surely not … I looked at Inigo, unable to school my expression, worrying about what I would see on his face: hope? Disappointment? I didn’t want to offend him, but …

I nervously met Inigo’s eyes, and was surprised to see he looked just as horrified as I felt. A moment passed. I blinked. Then we both burst out laughing. Corpulus’ brow creased in bafflement.

“No, thank you. Separate rooms. _Definitely_.”

Once we had deposited our things in our rooms — our _separate_ rooms — we returned downstairs, to be met with twin piping hot bowls of stew and goblets of spiced wine, plus a bowl of chopped raw rabbit for Meeko.

“This is a wonderful inn,” Inigo remarked, earning him a crooked smile and a top-up of his wine from Corpulus. “I must admit though, I have never tried winking at a skeever before. How did you come up with such an unusual and … evocative name?”

“I had a pet skeever when I was a boy, and he used to wink,” replied Corpulus.

I looked up from my stew, faintly surprised. Corpulus usually made up far more elaborate tales to entertain any customer who might ask that particular well-worn question. Now that I was paying attention, his face looked drawn, and his eyes wary.

“Corpulus, what’s going —”

“Hush. Nothing.” But I couldn’t help noticing his eyes flick quickly to a back corner of the room, where an imposing Altmer man in black robes stood in the shadows. A thrill of fear ran through me, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. _Thalmor._

Inigo’s ears pricked and his tail twitched, having caught the direction of my gaze. What were the Thalmor doing here? I knew their embassy was somewhere near Solitude, and they kept a small headquarters in the city, but as far as I knew they rarely ventured among normal folk. At least, that was how it was back at home. Perhaps it was different here, where many still worshipped the god-king Talos, despite the ban? He had been particularly important in the Nord pantheon, I’d been taught, and many Nords had reacted to the Empire’s treaty with the Aldmeri Dominion outlawing Talos worship with outraged incredulity. In fact, the ban on Talos worship seemed to be one of the main reasons the Stormcloaks’ anti-Empire campaign was gaining so much momentum among the Nords.

“What’s he doing here?” I muttered.

“Hunting Talos worshippers. What with that incident with Ranmir, they’re cracking down across the city. Seem to think there might be more like him hiding in the woodwork.” Corpulus’ voice was low, barely audible over the hum of chatter in the inn.

“Stormcloaks?”

“Either or. They don’t seem to see much of a difference between them. Doesn’t matter to them whether it’s one of Ulfric Stormcloak’s top lieutenants or a little old lady praying in her back room, they’re all just as guilty. Or even a little old lady who someone’s just pointed a finger at because she looked at them funny.” His face was masklike, but I could hear the suppressed anger in his words.

I wasn’t surprised at what he said. Back home I had heard about more than one instance of people being jailed for fabricated crimes, simply because they were inconvenient politically, or someone held a grudge. The Thalmor didn’t much seem to care: everyone outside their organisation was guilty of _something_ , even if that something was simply not being born Altmer, or not agreeing with the Thalmor’s iron rule. I could imagine them being particularly violent here, in the province that most resisted their ideology and authority.

Corpulus remained taut and distracted until the Altmer man eventually withdrew with a curt nod, about half an hour later. His shoulders visibly relaxed, and the smile he gave the pair of us was genuine once more.

“Sorry about that. Can’t stand … anyway. Inigo, was it? How’d you come by fur that makes you look like you were dipped in ink?” His voice had returned to its usual jovial cadence, and he and Inigo were soon swapping less and less believable stories back and forth. I smiled and sipped my wine. I knew they’d get along. But even as I settled back to listen to Corpulus tell Inigo about where the inn had _really_ got its name from, I couldn’t help worrying about that tall, hooded Altmer, and what it meant for the civil war if the Thalmor were starting to get involved.

* * *

Other than complaints that he was growing fat from all the lassitude, Inigo settled quickly and comfortably into life in Solitude. Those first weeks we did everything together. I showed Inigo my favourite parts of the city and its surrounds, and introduced him to my various friends and acquaintances, all of whom liked him instantly. He so impressed the Radiant Raiment sisters, in fact, that they gifted him a full outfit on the house, insisting garments with tail slits were hard to shift. I remembered the near-identical words they’d said to me, weeks ago, and smiled.

Our evenings we spent together at the Skeever, and it filled me with endless joy to have a friend there waiting for me between each set, spiced wine and gossip at the ready. The more time I spent with Inigo the more I liked him. He was funny and kind, and had a gentle, accepting manner that always looked for the best in everyone. I thought back to the man I’d met in the dark underground cell and I barely recognised him as the same person. And yet … Inigo still hadn’t shared with me those hidden, shameful details of his past, and I hadn’t pushed. He’d tell me when he was ready — and I didn’t really feel I needed to know, in any case. He was my friend, kind and true and encouraging, and I didn’t care who he’d been before we met.

The only time we spent apart was the few hours a day we spent practicing, Inigo with his sword and bow in the Legion’s practice yard, me with my lute and spellbooks. The attack in Riften had shaken me rather badly, and I was more determined than ever to gain better mastery and control over my magic. While my ‘battle flute’ was certainly useful, its applications were quite narrow: it was of very limited use if I was ever ambushed alone, or confronted by more than the two enemies I could hold at once … And although I never confessed it to Inigo, I didn’t entirely like the way using it made me feel. When news reached the Skeever that Pantea Ateia had cancelled a tour of the province because of the war I spurred myself even harder. There was no use in aspiring to become a famous bard if I couldn’t stay alive long enough to enjoy the accolades.

On one particularly chilly and overcast afternoon I was tucked in a corner of the Skeever with Meeko, trying to learn a spell called Healing Hands, which I could use to heal others, not just myself. I was having a terrible time of it. It was so much harder than healing myself. The forms were quite similar to the healing spell I already knew, but somehow directing the energies outwards instead of inwards made the whole thing feel very slippery and unstable. I sighed and set down my spell tome, then immediately snatched it up again. I had just spotted Fironet across the room, and didn’t want her to see me.

Solitude was, naturally enough, stuffed to the rafters with bards and aspiring bards. Walking through the city one could hear someone different on almost every street corner, desperate to be noticed either by the public or by the Deans at the College. The worst of these, in some ways, was Fironet. When I had first met her I’d thought we could be friends — she seemed in a similar position to my own, as a young foreign woman here alone and looking to make a name for herself. However, that was where the similarities ended. The largest difference between us was that she’d moved to Skyrim on a whim. She had told me she hadn’t come to Solitude with any strong aspirations to become a bard, merely that many people had told her she had a beautiful voice, and she wanted to travel. On this basis she had uprooted her whole life in Hammerfell, and also dragged her betrothed over with her … who, incidentally, had sold his farm to fund the move. Some time after arriving she had become sick for a while and couldn’t sing, and eventually her fiance had grown tired of the situation and moved back home.

While it was a sad story, and at first I’d been outraged at her betrothed’s callousness, now that I’d known Fironet for a while myself I couldn’t say I wholly blamed him. Fironet _still_ hadn’t even approached the College for an audition. She claimed she was waiting for Pantea Ateia to summon her, but it was clear, given that the girl had been here for over a full season, that this was just an excuse. She was clearly terrified of rejection, and putting off the audition so as to avoid the risk of being turned down. Instead she spun her wheels in the city, wandering around aimlessly most days — I never saw her perform, or even practice — and most irritatingly, ‘warming her vocal cords’ whenever she saw me.

Luckily for me, on this occasion her attention had first been caught by an Altmer woman called Nythriel, infamously known as the unofficial court gossip. She was rather shorter than most Altmer, and seemed to compensate by training her voice to be so large that it easily filled a room. She would probably have made an excellent poet-bard, especially with her exceptional memory — were she ever to put it to a use other than remembering the sordid details of everyone’s lives in minute detail.

“Greetings, Netta!” she called. I smirked from behind my book. This would be good. “Is it official yet? Are you a member of the College?”

“Um, no, not yet … but I’ve been practicing, so, any day now.”

 _Have you?_ I thought. _But when do you find the time, in between mooning around the marketplace and endlessly asking me whether you’re good enough to be a bard?_

“Oh — well, I do suggest you hurry. People are beginning to talk …”

“R-really? Who? What are they saying?”

_Everyone, Fironet. Literally everyone in the city. And they’re saying you’re a coward. Or that you’re not even a musician, and are actually on the run from some kind of political intrigue in Hammerfell — or hunting for a rich husband. Pick your favourite._

“Oh Netta,” chided Nythriel, “you know I can’t betray their confidence. Just as I would never betray yours.”

I choked from behind my spell tome. Nythriel would betray _anyone’s_ confidence, given enough wine and flattery.

Unfortunately, the noise seemed to finally have alerted Fironet to my presence. She drifted over to my table, humming in an unconvincingly casual manner — I could see Nythriel giving me a little self-satisfied smirk from behind her back.

“Oh — hello, Kirilee,” she said. “I didn’t see you there. Just, ah, warming up the vocal cords, you know.”

“Sure. How’s your practice going?” I asked pointedly.

“Oh, you know, fine … I wanted to ask you, one of the sailors at the docks suggested chewing on nirnroot, you know, for my voice. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I’ve never heard that. I find the best thing for my voice is practicing with it. I can show you some vocal exercises my old Master taught me, if you like. Practice them every day and you’ll be ready for the College in a fortnight.”

Fironet looked a little panicked. “Oh … um … sure, thanks. But another time. I’ve got to go, I’m going to be late for … well, I’ll see you later.”

“Bye,” I said, folding my arms. Once the door had shut behind her I shook my head and sighed, only for my irritation to turn to delight when the door opened once more to admit Inigo.

“Inigo! How did training go?”

“Very well, I think,” he said, pulling out the seat next to me. He was still damp, and smelled faintly of wet fur. “Captain Aldis was there today, and was very impressed by my skills. He has said he will pay me to help train some of the new recruits. With the war they do not have enough skilled soldiers to train all the new blood.”

“That’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you!”

“Thank you, my friend.” He smiled, and the unfamiliar look of pride on his face made my heart swell. “But I just saw Miss Fironet leaving here, looking rather upset — you were not unkind to her, were you?”

I crossed my arms again. “No. It’s not my fault she’s too frightened to audition. Or even _practice_. I offered her some vocal exercises, and she straight-up fled. She could certainly use them,” I added in a mutter. Despite what the people in Fironet’s village thought, she was only an average singer. Her voice was fair, but untrained, and she’d only started learning the lute shortly before coming to Skyrim. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she were actually rejected, were she finally to audition — but at least then she’d have an answer, and could plan her next steps. I couldn’t understand how she could bear these months of drifting listlessly through life.

Inigo looked at me sternly. “Do not be unkind. It does not suit you. She is trying her best.”

“Is she? Because all she seems to be _trying_ to do is get on my nerves.” I was settling in for a fight, but Inigo forestalled me by suddenly relaxing into a grin and laughing. He was very good at defusing such situations, I’d been finding.

“Ah, forget it, my friend. I do not wish to argue. I came to find you to celebrate!”

“Celebrate what?”

“Your one month anniversary in Skyrim!”

I blinked at him. It was the seventeenth of Hearthfire? My annoyance dissolved into a smile. “You’re right. A whole month in my new life — Divines, it’s gone quickly! This calls for a celebration indeed.”

I followed Inigo to the bar, where I had to endure first Inigo announcing to Corpulus how momentous a day it was, my having survived for a whole month, then Corpulus’ ruffling my hair as though I were a child. Somehow Inigo then managed to talk me into buying a bottle of Cyrodiilic brandy for us to share … which, of course, I had to finance, despite Inigo’s new and lucrative employment. Nevertheless, we were having such a fine time together that the cost of the liquor was soon forgotten in a fog of alcohol and good cheer. It felt wonderful: sitting in an inn that felt like home, in a city that felt like home, my dog at my feet, sharing with a good and true friend a bottle of expensive alcohol that I’d earned the gold for myself. Nothing could mar my happiness in the life I was building. Except …

“So. You are annoyed with Miss Fironet because she has not yet auditioned for the College. But … why are you yourself not a member? You have been here a whole month, and you surely have both the talent and the poise. I have heard you play and sing enough to know this for certain.”

I scowled. “Do we really have to talk about this now?”

“You have dodged my questions every time I have brought it up. Is it that you do not wish to be a member?”

“No. I … I want to join. Divines, of course I want to join! It was the first thing I did when I arrived. But they wouldn’t even let me audition.” It was difficult to keep my voice level, given the amount of brandy I’d had.

Inigo sat up sharply from where he had been lounging, his eyes wide. “What? Surely not! How could they not let you audition?”

I told him all about Viarmo’s _little jest_ , blinking back angry tears. I would _not_ cry. I would _not_ give that stupid old mer the satisfaction of ruining this day, as he had the one a month past.

Once I had finished my story I looked at Inigo, expecting indignation or anger — but instead he looked thoughtful.

“I think we should do it.”

Now it was my turn to gape in shock. “What?”

“Well … think about it this way. Either it was a jest, and we can rub their foolish noses in it when we return victorious, or this is actually the test Mister Viarmo has chosen. Either way, they could not turn you away when you return. Why not find out? What is there to lose?”

“Only _our lives_? Weren’t you listening when I said he wanted me to go to Dead Men’s Respite? I looked it up — it’s some kind of old Nord ruin. Everyone says they’re full of the living dead. You’re drunk, Inigo. This is a terrible idea.”

Inigo waved dismissively. “Yes, I am drunk. And I hate Nord barrows just as much as the next idiot. But this is important to you, and you are important to me. Which makes this important to me. Besides, draugr are not that bad — if you hit them hard enough they fall apart by thems—argh!”

I leapt from my chair, stumbling a little from the brandy. Inigo had clutched his head between both hands.

“Inigo! Inigo, what’s wrong?”

“I am okay, my friend, it is just — augh! My head!”

“What can I do? Please, tell me how I can help!” I dithered, desperately wishing I’d been quicker in learning that healing spell. My eyes sought out Corpulus — should I call him over for help? He was watching, concerned.

“My mind! It is vibrating in my skull! It feels like it is at the end of a hook!”

I beckoned Corpulus over, then returned to Inigo. Meeko was snuffling at him worriedly, but Inigo had let go of his head now, and was massaging his temples.

“What happened? Are you okay?” I demanded. “Corpulus, have you got a healing potion? Inigo’s ill, a bad reaction to the brandy, maybe …”

Corpulus made to hurry away, but Inigo stopped him. “I am okay. I do not need a potion. It is receding now.” He shuddered. “That was horrible.”

“What happened?”

“I do not know. All of a sudden there was a bright flash, and it felt like my mind was being pulled out of my ears.”

I stared at him, horrified. “That sounds — Inigo!” For he had clutched at his head again, shouting. Corpulus raced out of the room.

“Agh! It is happening again! My mind is vibrating. It feels like it is on the end of a rope!”

“Inigo — here, drink this!” Sorex, his face very white, had just pushed a small red bottle into my hands. I uncorked it and thrust it at Inigo.

“Wait! I see something. A cabin? Trees? A face? It is fading.” He tossed the potion back with shaking hands. “Augh. Disgusting. Thank the Moons, it is weakening. Ugh.”

“You’re — you’re okay?” I knelt in front of him on the floor, clasping his knee. Sorex and Corpulus hovered behind, more potion bottles of various sizes in their hands.

“It is over. Ow. Thank you, my friends.”

“You said you saw something? A vision?”

“Yes. I saw brief flashes of a cabin in the snow. It was surrounded by trees. What is happening to me?” He looked very frightened and helpless, like he had after the thief in Riften.

“You’ll be okay, Inigo. We’ll make sure you’re okay. This place — did you recognise it?”

“No, but something about the landscape was familiar. I wish I could remember where I have seen it before.”

“And — the face?”

He shook his head. “A man, perhaps. A bearded man. I did not recognise him. The images were very fast and confusing.”

I watched him carefully, but the — seizures? Episodes? — seemed to be done for good, this time. Or at least I hoped so.

“Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want me to take you to a healer?”

“No, my friend. I am okay. But if it does happen again and my brain tries to escape through my nose, push it back in please.” He smiled weakly, whiskers drooping.

I sat back on my heels, and regarded him with concern. “Let’s hope that was the last of it. Perhaps — perhaps let’s put away the brandy. Just in case it was that.”

“I do not think it was the brandy. But … I think you are right. In fact, I think I will go to bed. I am not feeling so well.”

I helped Inigo to his room, then took to my own, though I was not at all sleepy. Inigo’s sudden sickness had sobered me like a slap to the face. Surely he would be all right. He must be. I offered up a fervent prayer to the Divines to keep my friend safe and well, then climbed into bed next to Meeko, hoping that whatever had happened was some strange one-off occurrence, and tomorrow Inigo would be right as rain again — save for a hangover, perhaps.

My last thought before sleep claimed me was that no matter what happened, no matter if these … episodes recurred again, I would be there with him, and I would help in whatever way I could. I would look after my friend, as he looked after me.


	10. A True Friend

Inigo’s episodes recurred a number of times over the next three days. They would usually occur in clusters: he’d have two or three in the space of a few minutes, then nothing for several hours. None of the temple’s priests or healers could find anything wrong with him, despite hours spent poking and prodding. In desperation we’d even been to see Sybille Stentor, Elisif’s rather terrifying court wizard, but she, too, had drawn a blank. We didn’t know what they were, we didn’t know what was causing them, and we didn’t know how to stop them. Neither healing magic nor potions seemed to have any effect.

“I’m frightened,” I admitted to Sorex, as we sat together eating supper in the Skeever. Inigo was upstairs, his latest attack having given him a bad headache.

“I can understand why. But try not to fret about it too much, eh? Inigo’s tough. He’ll be okay.” Sorex gave me a warm, crooked smile, which I struggled to return. “But what about you? You look more than just frightened. You look exhausted. Have you been sleeping?”

I grimaced. “It’s been … difficult. I’ve been so worried, I keep having awful nightmares … Nobody knows what’s happening to Inigo. What if he … what if he …” I trailed off, unable to voice the awful thought. “I can’t lose him. Not when we’ve only just found each other,” I said softly.

“He … matters to you.”

“Yes. No, not like that!” I said, catching Sorex’s expression. “I just — I’ve never had a friend like him before. He makes me feel safe. Accepted. I’ve only known him for a few weeks, but he already sees and understands me better than anyone back home. I can be myself with him, and he doesn’t expect me to be anyone different.”

“Don’t you feel that way with us? With me?”

“I do, of course, but it’s not exactly …” I broke off, feeling suddenly discomfited. Why was Sorex asking me _that_? And in that accusing tone of voice? I studied his face, but he was closed, guarded.

Any further examination of this oddity was interrupted by Inigo barrelling down the stairs, looking both excited and nervous. He was clutching my map.

“Kirilee! The place from my visions! I know where it is. I saw a ruined tower in the snow. I think I recognised it.”

I leapt to my feet. “That’s wonderful! Where is it?”

“It is called Snowpoint Beacon. It is nothing special, from what I remember, but I think it is close to the source of these embarrassing episodes. The tower is a short hike from Dawnstar.”

I clasped his hands. “Then we’ll go there. Tomorrow. At first light.”

Inigo’s face broke into a relieved smile. “Thank you, my friend. I hope we can put my mind back to normal again.”

“We will. I promise.”

* * *

As it turned out, Snow Point Beacon was nothing like a ‘short hike from Dawnstar’. Inigo had completely misremembered its location, and it was only lucky that we happened to mention to the carriage driver where we were bound. “Snowpoint Beacon?” he’d said. “That’s a long walk from Dawnstar indeed. Ye won’t manage it today. Tell ye what — I’ll drop ye off near Fort Fellhammer, on my way from Dawnstar to Whiterun. Ye’ll be able to walk it in an hour or so from there.”

True to his word, after picking up some extra passengers in Dawnstar we continued on to the south. I gazed out over the snowy landscape, my hands tucked into my armpits. The cold here was so intense that even my warmth cantrip hadn’t completely protected me from the frozen air. Inigo, of course, was perfectly warm in his permanent fur coat, and very chipper, besides.

“Look, Kirilee, that is the Hall of the Vigilant to the right. You have heard of them, yes? The Daedra hunters? Perhaps after we have dealt with my episodes we could pay them a visit.”

“Thinking of joining up, are you? We can always use more recruits,” said a lean blond man, who had until then been sitting opposite us in silence. I spotted the mace at his side and the horn-shaped amulet around his neck and suddenly understood.

“No, my friend. I admire the work you do but it is not the life for me,” Inigo replied easily. The Vigilant of Stendarr gave him a curt nod, and returned to his brooding silence. When ten minutes later the carriage stopped to let the three of us off, plus Meeko, the man turned and headed away to the west without even a farewell.

“What a dour man,” I said, watching him push his way through the snow. “Are they all like that?”

“It is a difficult life, hunting Daedra and undead. A hard life which makes for hard men and women. I do not envy them in their tasks.”

“Yes, well, let’s get on with it. It’s going to be dark in a few hours.” I rubbed my arms, hugging them to myself. Trying to undertake this whole endeavour in a single day no longer seemed like such a good idea. I had a Mark set in Solitude now, and had found that though it gave me a splitting headache I could transport both Meeko and Inigo with me, much to my surprise, Meeko’s confusion and Inigo’s delight — but what if this errand took more than the few hours of sunlight we had left? We had no camping equipment, and I didn’t like our chances of trying to find somewhere to spend the night. Perhaps the Vigilants would take us in?

We set out in the opposite direction to that which the Vigilant had taken, following a narrow path up into the mountains to the east. After we passed by a large fort — Fort Fellhammer, I presumed — the slope quickly steepened, and the path turned to switchbacks along the face. I was soon panting from exertion. “At least you are now warm,” Inigo commented unhelpfully.

It took us two hours to reach the tower. I watched the sun anxiously as it marched towards the horizon — we would not have much light left, once it set. I hoped we would quickly find answers and be able to teleport home. More than that, though, I simply hoped we would find answers at all. Inigo had suffered another two episodes on the carriage — the strongest ones yet — startling all the passengers. I ran my fingers through Meeko’s thick fur. We’d solve this. We’d fix this. My friend would be okay.

“Yes, this is Snowpoint Beacon, and it is indeed the tower from my visions,” Inigo said. “I recognise it. Next we need to find the wooden posts I saw. Let us fan out.”

The three of us split up, circling the half-ruined tower. There were no further paths here, and I cursed under my breath as I tried to push my short, weak, insufficiently-dressed legs through the thick snow. At home I had always loved the snow and would spend whole days playing in it as a child. I was rather coming to change my mind about the stuff.

Meeko barked, and I heard Inigo cry, “Here! I have found them!” I gritted my teeth, and trudged towards his voice.

“Why do you not simply melt the snow away?” Inigo said, amused, as I struggled towards him.

“I don’t know any fire spells.”

“What! I thought that was the first spell all mages learned?”

“I’m from _High Rock_ , Inigo. We learn magic in a more _civilised_ fashion. We start with light spells. Most Bretons start learning magic before their tenth birthday, and Candlelight is much less likely to burn the house down around the family’s ears.” I realised I was being short, and schooled my voice. It wasn’t Inigo’s fault. As on my first trip to Whiterun, I was using irritation to mask my latent fear. I took a few deep breaths to steady myself. “But you’re right. I know a cantrip to keep myself warm — if I try and … concentrate it in my legs then maybe I can melt my way through the snow.”

My fingers a little numb, I re-cast the spell, this time trying to focus it in my legs and feet. Immediately I felt as though I’d stepped into a warm bath. Sighing, I wriggled my toes in the delicious warmth, feeling better already. I stepped forward — and the snow melted before my legs reached it. Inigo clapped, and a smile spread across my face.

“Okay. This way, you said?”

“Yes. We must follow the posts. I think they will lead us to the cabin.”

We hiked along the route marked by the wooden posts sticking out of the snow, ascending higher and higher up the mountain as the sun sank below the horizon. The view from up here was breathtaking. I could see all the way out over the Sea of Ghosts, where icebergs glittered in the setting sun like chunks of polished glass. The wind whistled around us, making me shiver.

Finally Inigo cried out, his more sensitive eyes spotting before I did a small wooden cabin perched on the mountaintop. The lights were on inside. Inigo stopped short, and Meeko and I drew up beside him.

“Thank the Moons. I am not crazy. There it is — the cabin I saw. And it seems that we are not the only ones here …”

“Do you think — do you think that whoever’s in there could be the one causing your episodes?”

“Perhaps. But how? In any case, this is the place to which my mind has been tugged. I can feel it.”

“Shall we … knock?” I said.

Inigo’s ears flattened into his hair. “Perhaps you could do the honours?”

We slowly walked up to the door of the cabin. There was no doubt about it, someone was definitely inside — I could hear shuffling feet, and smell cooking. I held up my fist, but paused. My heart hammered. I was terrified. What would we find inside? A fearsome mage? A monster? Someone from Inigo’s past?

I knocked.

Inigo grabbed my hand and clutched it as we heard a small grunt of surprise, followed by shuffling footsteps. At my side Meeko had his legs planted apart and was growling. Someone inside fumbled at the latch — the door swung open with a rusty squeak — and there stood —

A man.

Just … an old man. Imperial, maybe; grey-haired and bearded, with a long nose, small, beady eyes and — at present — a wide-eyed look of frank astonishment.

“That man!” Inigo whispered in my ear. “It was his face I saw!”

The man found his voice. “Oh, my. You’re … you’re here! I was beginning to lose hope.” He was looking straight over the top of my head at Inigo, and I immediately bristled both at the dismissal, and at his smarmy, unctuous voice.

“ _Excuse_ _me_ ,” I said, going up on my tiptoes. “You were expecting us?”

The man finally seemed to notice me, and looked down to meet my eyes with a sneer. “Not _you_ , you bumbling Breton, _him_! Get out of the way!” He pushed roughly past me, and gazed at Inigo, who was at that moment helping me up from where I had fallen to the ground. “Inigo …? Is it really you? Or am I … dreaming?”

“That is my name,” Inigo snarled, “and let me tell you this — if you insult my friend again I will be forced to harm you. Do we have an understanding?” He turned back to me. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I muttered, brushing snow off my coat.

The man looked a little abashed. “My apologies. I am often too … terse for my own good. I mean nothing by it, I assure you.” I noticed he addressed his apology to Inigo, rather than me, and folded my arms.

“Kirilee is my dear and true friend, and she deserves your respect,” Inigo said hotly to the man, once he had ascertained I was unharmed.

“I … see. Well, I’m sure she is … fine, but it is _you_ who I have been seeking all these years. I’m so glad you’re still alive.”

“What? Inigo, you — you _know_ this man?”

“I do not, my friend.” Inigo turned to him, tail lashing. “Who are you? Why have you been seeking me?”

“Let us not talk on the doorstep. Please — come in.” He offered Inigo a warm smile, while still pointedly ignoring Meeko and I. However, he waited til all three of us were inside before closing the door.

I gasped. I couldn’t help it. Right opposite the entryway was something resembling nothing so much as a _shrine_ to Inigo. Half a dozen inexpertly painted canvases jostled for space, all bearing Inigo’s likeness, surrounded by candles and flowers. Who was this weirdo?

“My name is Langley. Langley Longseer to some. Dear boy, I have much to tell you. How did you find me?” the man — Langley — said, leading Inigo to where a kettle whistled merrily on the hearth. While Inigo explained his episodes to the man I looked around the cabin. Nothing else unusual, I was relieved to note — though my eyes kept returning to that strange shrine. What did this man want with my friend?

Langley’s loud voice jolted me from my musings. “Ha! The spell works! Not quite as intended, but it got you here in the end. I was about ready to string that mage up by his toes.”

“Wait — the tugging on Inigo’s mind, his pain and visions — that was _you_?”

“I’ve been trying to find you for quite some time,” Langley said to Inigo, ignoring me. “I even travelled to Riverhold. I found your parents shortly after they died, Gods rest their souls. … Oh dear, you do know about that, don’t you?”

 _Very tactful,_ I thought furiously to myself. _Imagine if he_ hadn’t _known._

Inigo surprised me by answering, rather softly, “They were killed protecting a trading caravan. I heard. You were there?”

I stared at him in astonishment and hurt. Inigo hadn’t yet told _me_ how his parents had died.

“Yes. I am so sorry for your loss. For all your losses. In a way … I’ve been travelling with you. Just a step behind.”

My hurt feelings forgotten, I stiffened. What did he mean? He’d been _following_ Inigo? Did he just say he was there when Inigo’s parents were killed? A sudden suspicion stole over me, and I watched the old man with narrowed eyes.

Inigo’s thoughts seemed to be in a completely different place to mine, however. A tremor in his voice, all he said to Langley was, “Did my mother and father … die well?”

“They … met their end with dignity. I was the one who found them, and I made sure they had a fine burial. They died holding hands.”

My suspicion deepened. How had this man just _happened_ to come across Inigo’s dead parents so soon after they’d died? Why was he even there?

Inigo finally seemed to have wondered the same thing. “Why were you there? Were you looking for me even then?”

“I had hoped they could lead me to you,” Langley said. “I continued to track you for years, then the trail went cold … after I found your brother.”

_What?_

“You found Fergus?” Inigo’s voice was strangely high pitched, and his ears were folded backwards. “How? Have you always been hiding in my past, haunting every step I take? Why? I do not know you! What do you want from me?”

“I have come to know you very well. I am your _friend_ , Inigo. Perhaps the greatest friend you have. We are destined to work together!”

I let out a loud scoff, but Inigo spoke before I could. He addressed his next words to me.

“I already have the only friend I need.”

Trying not to let my anger at the insufferably rude, creepy old man show, I returned his smile. “Thanks, Inigo. Likewise.”

“You don’t understand,” cried Langley. “There’s a great evil coming. I don’t know when exactly, but it is close. I’ve seen it in my dreams. You are there too, Inigo. You are the champion destined to destroy the Doom Strider!”

“The what?” I said loudly. Langley shot me a disdainful look.

“The very avatar of destruction and death. The demon that has plagued my dreams for decades.”

There was a long silence.

“I … I need to sit down,” Inigo said. “I need a moment.” He sounded very faint, and seemed pale underneath his fur.

“Of course,” I said instantly, and stepped forward to help him to a chair.

“Sit down,” Langley said. “It is a lot to take in, I know. Make no mistake, Inigo, you are _safe_ here.” He turned to me. “Inigo and I have much to discuss. I don’t wish to be rude,” he said, though his tone of voice said exactly the opposite, “but perhaps it’s best if you leave us to it for a bit. In fact, if you could do something for me I’d be most grateful. I need you to fetch me some eggs.”

“I’d rather stay here with Inigo, thanks.” I glared with folded arms. There was not a chance in Nirn or Aetherius I would leave my friend alone, after dark, with this obsessive crackpot. Why was he _really_ interested in Inigo? I was positive this ‘Doom Strider’ nonsense was so much made-up drivel.

Langley tried to press me, but I was adamant. Inigo still seemed dazed and overwhelmed. I would _not_ leave him. No, I didn’t care what he had to say to Inigo. Inigo trusted me; whatever he had to say to him he could say to me too. And so I bundled myself into a corner of Langley’s dusty little house, arms wrapped around Meeko, and watched my friend and his — fan? Stalker? I wouldn’t name him _friend_ — softly conversing until sheer exhaustion lulled me into slumber.

* * *

I woke the next morning cramped and aching, still in the corner of the cabin, though with a cheerful patchwork blanket draped around my shoulders and Meeko snoring at my feet. I stood up and stretched. All the walking the previous day had left me very stiff. I was the first up: Langley (I shot him a glare) slept in his bed, and Inigo was curled up on a rug in front of the hearth. As soon as I stood up he began to stir, however, and soon the only one still asleep in the cabin was Langley. I gestured out the front door.

“What did you talk about?” I asked Inigo, once we were sitting on the steps in front of the cabin.

“Nothing very much. He did not wish to speak of anything important while you were in the room.” He looked troubled.

“I don’t like him,” I said at once. “I don’t trust him. I don’t believe half of what he’s saying, and I _definitely_ don’t like the idea of leaving you alone with him. Have you forgotten that the past three days he’s been turning your brain to mush?”

“I know, my friend. But I do wish to speak with him alone. He seems to have a lot to tell me, and sadly I do not think he will do it with you there.”

“You really think anything that — that _lunatic_ has to say is worth your time? Inigo, the man has a _shrine_ to you! Please, let’s just tell him you’re not interested and go home.”

“But what about this Doom Strider?”

I snorted. “Please. _Doom Strider_? Some mystical monster that appears only in the obsessive weirdo’s dreams? Which led him to you? Don’t get me wrong, Inigo, you’re hero material. Brave, noble, the rest of it. But I simply cannot accept that _this man_ , a man who _completely coincidentally_ happened to be there when your parents died, is the harbinger of a cataclysmic event of which you happen to be at the centre. Can’t you see he just wants to get you feeling special enough to form some kind of relationship with him?”

Inigo sighed heavily. “Perhaps. But I do not agree with your assessment. His heart is in the right place, I think. I find him quite amusing.”

“Fine.” I stood up sharply. “ _Fine_. Have your little chat with your _new friend_. Just don’t be surprised if the reason he wants to talk to you alone is to propose. Langley!” I yelled, throwing open the door. “Get up. You can have your stupid little _chat_ with Inigo.”

Langley was just rising from his bed, and looked affronted at my audacity in raising my voice inside his home. He sniffed.

“Good. I’m glad you see reason at last. If Inigo is here then maybe the Doom Strider is finally preparing to strike. We must be ready.”

 _Whatever you say, crackpot._ “Where am I supposed to get these _eggs_ , then?” I planted my feet and crossed my arms.

“Finally ready to be useful, eh? Good. I need snow thrush eggs. They boost my visions, allowing me to see further into the future. There are plenty of nests outside. I hope you don’t mind heights — they are usually rather elevated. Come back when you have six. No fewer, now!”

“Fine.”

“Search up high. And try not to fall off anything,” he said, sounding as though he rather hoped I would.

I stormed back outside, Meeko trotting happily after me. Inigo tried to give me an encouraging pat on the shoulder on the way out, but I shrugged it off.

* * *

_I hate this stupid man and his stupid egg-hunting. I've been clambering over rocks and branches all morning and I still haven't found enough._

I punctuated the end of my last sentence with such a sharp jab of my quill that the tip pierced several pages of my journal.

“Argh!” I yelled to the heavens, startling several small birds out of a nearby tree. I wondered whether they were the stupid snow thrushes with the stupid invisible suposedly-magic eggs. _Boosting his visions_ indeed … I doubted very much they did anything of the sort. That psychotic bastard just wanted me out of the way for as long as possible, and if I fell to my death from an outcropping trying to retrieve eggs for his breakfast then so much the better. Well. I was done with his ridiculous game. I’d been out here for hours, I was soaked to the skin, and my hair was so tangled it looked like a ginger bird’s nest itself. He could have his four eggs and be glad of them.

I burst into the hut to see Inigo and Langley chatting in the warmth, mugs of tea in hand. It did not improve my temper one bit.

“I’ve got your stupid eggs,” I said. “Only four, but I’m guessing by the look on your face that you didn’t even need that many.”

Langley smiled languidly. “No. I didn’t need eggs. I just needed you out of the house for a bit so we could talk. Keep them. Turn them into an omelette, for all I care.”

I thought suddenly that I might like to learn a fire spell after all. Or perhaps a lightning spell. Or maybe a frost bolt. Something painful, that was for sure.

“Anyway, Inigo and I have had a bit of a chat, and he’s persuaded me that you can be trusted,” Langley continued in an oily voice. “It seems we three are in this together.”

“Are we, now,” I said through gritted teeth at Inigo, who gave me a cheery grin.

“I’ve given him all my notes, and I’m sure he’ll let you read through everything. If you have any questions I’ll do my best to answer them. And now if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I need to handle breakfast.”

I turned to Inigo, furious. “ _Well_?”

He shrugged, still smiling. “Langley may be a bit rude and gruff but he is not a bad person, I think. Look, he gave me these — he found my father’s journal, can you believe it? And he also gave me two books he has written about his search for me.” Inigo handed me three slim leatherbound books. He seemed giddy. What had Langley said to him? “They contain a lot of information about how important I am. Apparently I have my own prophecy! We are going to save the world!”

_Aha._

“We’ll … we’ll talk about this later. How is your head feeling now? Langley hasn’t still been …”

“Oh, no, not at all. It is still a little tender, but otherwise I am fine. Oh! That reminds me — you should ask him about the summon spell that has been causing my mind vibrations. He has a spare copy. Maybe he will give it to you to learn? My mind is not so keen on the idea, but a spell like that could be useful, if we can get it to work.”

I perked up a little. That _would_ be useful — though I doubted Langley would ever part with it.

Langley must have been eavesdropping, for he called across the room, “It’s rubbish! Tosh! It hardly works at all. All it seems to do is give poor Inigo vague directions to the summoner, and a headache.”

“Maybe you’re just doing it wrong,” I shot back.

“Rubbish! I followed the instructions dutifully. There’s no reason it shouldn’t work. No one knows Inigo better than I do.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” _Also, I don’t think a creepy stalker-like obsession really counts as ‘knowing’ someone, Langley._

He sniffed and tapped his spoon on the edge of the pot. “The Conjuration mage who created the spell told me that as long as I was Inigo’s true friend I should be able to get it to work. It’s clearly broken. I’m the greatest ally Inigo has.”

I gave him a thin-lipped smile. “You’re wrong. I’m a much better friend to Inigo than you ever are, or will be.”

“How egocentric. You’ve just met him. I’ve been tracking him most of my life.”

No wonder this pathetic old man lived alone on a mountaintop, I thought. How little he understood of what friendship actually meant.

Langly continued blithely, “No, if the spell doesn’t work for me, it won’t work for anyone. Isn’t that right, Inigo?”

“I think you should let her try it,” Inigo said.

“Exact— wait, what? Why?”

“Langley,” Inigo said, “I am sure we are great allies in the making, but Kirilee and I have a more immediate bond.”

“What do you mean? Oh!” he said, suddenly flustered. “I didn’t realise you were … an item.” Did he seem _disappointed_?

Inigo laughed, leaning back on his chair. “No! Not that kind of bond. We have shared our inner selves with each other. We have travelled together, and sung together, and drunk many a bottle of wine together. She … accepts me. I have placed my life in her hands.” He flashed me an uncharacteristically shy smile. A small blush crept into my cheeks, and I noticed how similar Inigo’s words about me were to those I had spoken about him to Sorex.

“What I am trying to say is, we are friends. Go on, give her a copy of the spell. I am the only one who will suffer if it goes wrong.”

“I … see. I won’t argue with you. Even though it’s an obvious waste of time,” Langley said. He dropped his spoon into the pot, then rummaged around a nearby low shelf for a minute muttering under his breath the whole while. While he searched the delicious scent of frying onions filled the cabin — I was annoyed at how good it smelled, and how my traitorous stomach rumbled in response.

“Here.” He thrust a small spell tome into my hands, so thin it was barely more than a pamphlet. “Take this, for all the good it will do.”

“Thank you,” I said. To my surprise the forms were very simple; quite similar to Recall, but with an astonishingly elegant efficiency. I was very impressed by the skill of the mage who had come up with this spell. I supposed much of the juice, so to speak, must have to come from the bond between the caster and the subject. Which explained why it had worked so poorly for Langley.

I read through it a few times — yes, simplicity itself. It was lucky I’d been doing so much magic study lately, however; it wouldn’t have seemed quite so simple a scant month ago.

“Ready,” I said, as Langley turned back to his cooking.

“What? But you only just looked at it! That took me hours to learn!”

“Well, it’s a very simple spell,” I said sweetly. “Most mages with any _aptitude_ would have very little trouble with the forms. Shall we test it out, then?” I was pleased to note Langley was fuming, though Inigo gave me a rather flat, displeased stare.

“Fine. We’ll do this scientifically. Inigo, you stay in here, and your … friend and I will go outside. Once we’re on the path you can try, _unsuccessfully_ , to teleport Inigo to us. Do you understand?” He spoke very slowly and clearly, as though to someone feeble of mind.

“Good luck! I will wait here and brace myself,” Inigo said as I followed Langley outside. I had an overwhelming urge to hit him. Langley, that was.

Once we were outside in the snow he crossed his arms. “Let’s get this over with.”

I called the forms to mind. They came easily, eagerly, and slid from my mind into my outstretched hand like wine pouring from a bottle. I concentrated on a spot on the ground in front of me, and released the spell. Inigo’s name seemed to echo in my head for half a heartbeat — and then there he was in front of me, delighted and excited.

“Wow! It worked! I am outside!”

Langley was stunned. “How did you do that?” he demanded.

“Do it again! Do it again!” Inigo said. Grinning broadly, I cast the spell again. I barely had to think at all. It was the smoothest, most fluid spell I’d ever learnt. It _wanted_ to be cast.

“Haha! That felt good!” He hurried up to me and drew me into a hug. “Kirilee! That was wonderful! Did you see? One moment I was inside, definitely not tasting Langley’s cooking, then whoosh! I saw your face and I was out here! It was amazing!”

“How does it feel? It doesn’t … hurt?” I asked anxiously.

“No. No mind vibrations at all. It was very like your Recall spell.”

“Yes, it was a bit like that to cast, too — though this spell is far easier. I shouldn’t need to ever suffer a Recall headache again.”

Inigo beamed. “This is a fantastic tool, my friend. I knew you could do it. You are outstanding.” He pulled me into another hug, both of us laughing.

Langley’s unctuous drawl broke into our moment. “Observation: the subject appears to be physically unaffected by the spell. He is, however, exhibiting poor character judgement.”

I gritted my teeth and my eyes flashed, but before I could rebuke him Inigo said, “You are very funny, Langley. Poor character judgement! Kirilee did a fantastic job getting the spell to work.”

“Note: the subject is clearly delusional.”

“‘The subject’ does not sound nearly as good as ‘the Champion’. Did I offend you in some way?” Inigo asked. “I hope not. Without you we never would have gained such a wonderful spell. I hope you know how grateful we are.”

“It’s not you, Inigo,” Langley glowered, “it’s … _her_. The spell shouldn’t work with just anyone. It was supposed to form a link between _us_. This … this _idiot_ broke it!”

I stepped forward, bristling, but Inigo put out a restraining hand. “I think that maybe the spell works because of the link Kirilee and I already share. You should not take it personally. We three are a team now! We need each other, and should not be fighting amongst ourselves.”

“ _You_ and _I_ are a team, Inigo. All this moron can do is collect eggs! How useful is that going to be when we take on the Doom Strider?”

“Hey!” I snapped, just as Inigo said, “Langley! You are going too far. Stop this!”

Langley stared at us flatly for a moment. “… I am getting cold. I think I’ll head inside. I’ll contact you with my lesser version of the spell if I hear anything new, Inigo. Goodbye.” He then turned on his heel and strode back into his cabin, slamming the door on the way in.

“Divines!” I burst out, once he had gone. “What an insufferable — miserable — petulant _child_! Throwing a tantrum like that just because _he’s_ not your _special friend_ , with his creepy stalking habit and his weird shrine, and his _paintings_ …” I trailed off, too apoplectic to even speak.

“His heart is in the right place, I think,” Inigo said, though his ears twitched anxiously. “But I do not blame you for being angry with him. He is … quite a character. I believe he means well, even if he is not very good at showing it.”

“You could say that,” I said. “Inigo, he called me an _idiot_.”

“Do not take his words to heart. It is just his way. He will warm to you in time, I know it.”

I hoped not, as that would imply this was not the last time I would see the odious man.

I exhaled sharply. “Well. Shall we go, then?”

Inigo cast a troubled glance at Langley’s house. “Yes. I think that would be best.”

* * *

“Inigo, did you say you’d already read these?” I asked later, at the Winking Skeever. We had Recalled home, and after a long, hot bath each were relaxing in the common room with a plate of cheeses and a bottle of spiced wine. I was thumbing through the journals Langley had written, and growing more and more horrified by the page.

“Hm?” Inigo said, coming back to himself. He had been staring blankly into space for at least the last quarter hour.

“I said, have you already read these?” I held up the journal I was currently perusing. Langley had titled it _In Search of a Champion_.

“Yes, why?”

“And you’re … _okay_ with what’s written in here? Okay with _Langley_? These are … these are sick. The man was following you and your brother around for _years_. Mara’s mercy, he collected _Inigo artifacts_. He might not mean you any harm, as you say, but this level of obsessive hero-worship is dangerous in itself. Inigo! Are you listening?” He had lapsed into staring again.

“Oh! I am sorry. Yes, I hear you. I understand your concerns, but I think he is harmless.” His voice was very distant.

I sat up straighter. “What’s wrong?”

He was silent for a long moment. “The spell. It … worked for you.”

“Yes, and?”

“You are … truly my friend. A true friend.”

My confusion deepened. “Yes, I know. Which is why I think Langley feels so threatened by me — I really am worried he might try something, he —”

“Will you leave off about Langley, Kirilee? This is much more important!”

I shut up.

Inigo took a deep breath. “You … you consider me a true friend. And I you. This is why the spell worked so well when you cast it. But … you do not really understand. You _cannot_ be my true friend.”

A spear of ice shot through me. “What do you mean?”

“Because … I am not who you think I am. You are good, and pure, and kind. I am not. You do not know the things I have done. If you did, you could not consider me a true friend. You would be running screaming.”

“Inigo. I know there is darkness in your past.”

“You do not understand! You are so innocent, you cannot comprehend —”

“ _Inigo_ ,” I said, more forcefully. “A few weeks before I met you I looked a man in the eye while he told me he was going to take me all night, and let me live afterwards only if I pleased him. I _know_ the kinds of darkness there are in the world.”

“But … you do not know my darkness. You do not know the kind of monster I really am. Kirilee, I left my brother to die! I ran away, like a coward! I robbed and killed for a living, I betrayed the people in my life time and time again, I cheated and schemed and would turn on anyone, _anyone_ , if it meant just one more hit of skooma, and eventually it led — it led —”

“It led to that arrow,” I said softly. He nodded, and I could see his eyes were swimming with tears.

“And so, you see you _cannot_ be my true friend. One as good and kind as you cannot truly care for one such as me — it is only because I have misled you, made you think I am somebody I am not. I am despicable, abominable, I deserve —”

“I already knew.”

Inigo blinked. “You — you knew? Knew what?”

“I already knew that’s who you were. Well, I didn’t know the specifics, but it wasn’t difficult to guess the kinds of things you were keeping from me.”

“You _knew_? And yet —”

“— And yet I’m your friend anyway. Because it doesn’t _matter_.”

He stared, stunned.

“What do you mean? How can it not matter? I am a monster! I shot — I shot —”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said again. “It doesn’t matter what happened before I found you in that cell. You aren’t your past, Inigo. You clearly made mistakes, and bad ones. But the Inigo I’ve spent the past few weeks with is _not_ that person. He’s _not_ a monster. He’s kind and caring, sweet and funny, the kind of person who everybody likes and who sees the best in everyone in return. You even saw the good in someone as disgusting as Langley! _That_ is the Inigo who is my true friend. The other Inigo, the Inigo who lived before the arrow? He’s someone else. I don’t know him. _He doesn’t matter_.”

Inigo stared at me. The tears in his eyes spilled over, leaving damp tracks of darker violet in his rich purple fur. I clambered out of my armchair, kneeled on the floor in front of him and took his hands in mine.

“Inigo, you’re my friend. One of the best I’ve ever had. You care about me. You look out for me. You make me want to be the best version of myself I can be. Of course there are things in your past you’d rather forget. Everybody has such things. But our past doesn’t have to define our future.”

His mouth opened, and for a moment I thought he might finally be ready to admit that last terrifying truth — that I hadn’t been the one he’d shot with that arrow. But instead he threw his arms around my neck, nearly bearing me to the floor with his weight, and sobbed like a child. I held him, rocking back and forth, whispering soothing words and ignoring the sideways glances of the other patrons. They didn’t matter right now.

“You are right,” Inigo whispered finally, drying his eyes on his tail. “Our yesterdays need not define us. We must be brave, and look to our tomorrows.”

A heavy feeling of dread settled in my stomach, and I knew his words didn’t just apply to himself.

“And tomorrow,” I said, swallowing, “tomorrow … we will go to Dead Men’s Respite.”


	11. To Become a Bard

“This was a mistake,” I said, as soon as the door to the ancient tomb had closed behind us with a dull thud. My voice echoed strangely in the dark passageway. Outside it had been a crisp, clear autumn morning, but the feel of the sun on my skin already felt like a distant memory. By allowing that door to close I had shut us off from the world of the living, I felt — we were now in the dominion of the dead.

I shivered. It was cold, but not the clean cold of snowy air; rather a clammy, sickly cold that I felt right to my bones and immediately made me nauseous. It felt as though the crumbling walls of the passageways were closing in on us, trapping us into an early grave, and I nearly turned on my heel in a panic and ran back outside again. It was only Inigo’s steadying hand on my shoulder that gave me the strength to press on.

“You can do this, my friend,” he said. His voice was warm and reassuring. “ _We_ can do this.”

I swallowed, but nodded, and after entangling my fingers in Meeko’s warm, soft, living fur I stumbled forward and into the depths of Dead Men’s Respite.

The dark was absolute outside the small pool of my Candlelight spell, but as we approached the first chamber I saw something glowing up ahead. As we reached the foot of the steps, I could see it more clearly. A man, with a lute on his back — or what had once been a man, for I could see straight through him to the walls on the other side of the room.

“A ghost!” I said in a choked whisper. My breath caught in my lungs and my heart pounded, but the spectre merely beckoned to us then turned and walked away, further into the crypt.

“See, my friend?” Inigo said. “We have a guide to bring us to what must surely be hidden riches! This will be even easier than I thought!”

I doubted that very much, but didn’t contradict him. His optimism felt like the only lifeline preventing me from giving in to gibbering terror.

“What is this?” Inigo said, striding forward. The centre of the room was occupied by a low stone table, covered with an assortment of dusty paraphernalia … as well as something else. Something that _shone_. I guided my Candlelight over the table. Yes, there, right in the centre was some kind of … sculpture?

“It looks like … a foot. Of a reptile, or a bird,” I said, puzzled.

“Yes — and look, it seems to be of solid gold! Are these claws made from rubies?” Inigo picked up the foot-thing to examine it more closely. “Yes, it is very heavy indeed, it —”

“Inigo!” I yelled, pointing at the outskirts of the room.

The dead were coming to life.

The ghost had completely distracted me, and I hadn’t noticed as we had entered the room that the walls were lined with crevices, and each filled with the decaying husk of a corpse. As Inigo’s fingers had touched the claw, I had heard a soft, eerie sussuration and a bone-dry creaking. Pinpricks of light began to appear in the darkness: ice-blue, and arrayed in pairs. The next moment a number of corpses swung themselves clumsily from their ledges and began to shamble towards us, letting out blood-curdling moans as they sensed the sweet, warm scent of life intruding on their never-changing domain. These were no mere corpses. I was surrounded by the dreaded Nord draugr, tales of which used to frighten me so badly as a child that I couldn’t sleep.

I froze. _No, no, no, no, no._ This was all wrong; this couldn’t — shouldn’t — be happening. The dead were supposed to stay _dead_. Not shuffle towards me, dry bones creaking, faces stretched tight in an awful parody of a grin; while I just stood there, paralysed, watching in horror as death came closer step by step to claim me as its own …

“Kirilee!” shouted Inigo, anguished. He was straining towards me, but his path was blocked by two of the nightmare creatures whose blows he was frantically parrying. Meeko’s booming barks rang in the stale air as he dodged between the legs of another pair, snapping at dry dead flesh. I was alone.

The draugr grew closer. Its unliving, crystalline eyes latched onto my own. It opened its mouth, revealing sickeningly blackened teeth, as it reached for the axe at its waist. I couldn’t move. My mind was completely empty, except for a thin, horrified screaming. I was going to die. Nobody was coming to save me this time.

_Save yourself, you idiot! The flute! Get the flute!_

I tore myself back to reality. My hand plunged into my breast pocket, and fumbled over the thin wooden flute. I knew a moment of panic when it nearly slipped from my sweaty, shaking fingers, but I jammed it to my lips and blew. A shrill note rang out. I pushed my will through it, fiercely, desperately, and grabbed the draugr as its axe whistled through the air. It froze. I had it.

I blew and blew and blew, far harder than I knew was wise. Too soon I would run out of air, and then what? I should restrain myself, stretch this note out as long as I could, maybe try and hold a second draugr, too …

I couldn’t make myself do it. I couldn’t modulate my air, or try and snatch another draugr into the spell to help Inigo or Meeko — all I knew was that I needed to hold _this_ one, as strongly and tightly as I could. All reason fled. Nothing mattered to me but that I not die within the next dozen heartbeats.

So I blew. My lungs burned, my ears rang. Spots appeared in my vision. Still I blew. I heard Meeko yelp in pain. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I couldn’t keep this up for much longer — but my eyes were fixed on those of the undead monstrosity only a foot away, and my fear gave me strength and endurance I never imagined I possessed.

The note began to thin. My air was nearly gone. The draugr was pushing against the bounds of the spell, bashing against my will. I held and held as desperately as I could — and then my air ran out.

I sucked in a deep breath, my lungs crying out for air, even as the draugr shook its head, reorienting itself. Its grip firmed on its axe. I lifted my flute back to my lips, but I felt dizzy. I had used too much air, and needed a few seconds to recover — seconds I didn’t have. A dead, rotting grin — I blew into the flute, but it was no good; I didn’t have enough air or will to fuel the magic — the axe lifted once more — and suddenly an ebony and silver blade hewed through the monster’s neck. Its body crumpled, and its head fell to the ground with a sickening thunk, the blue lights in its eyes extinguished.

I collapsed alongside it onto the floor, shaking, my face glazed with tears. Once again I felt Inigo’s warm hand on my shoulder. Meeko limped over to me — there was a gash in his side, oozing blood.

Sucking in a few deep breaths, I collected myself. I couldn’t fall to pieces. Meeko needed me. So I did my best to ignore the now doubly-dead corpse next to me, and instead shudderingly, shakily, assembled the forms for a healing spell.

“It is all right, my friend. You did well,” Inigo said, his hand still resting on my shoulder. “Those dusty monsters are a bit scary when they jump out like that, even for me. Let us go on.”

The wound in Meeko’s side closed up as I finished casting the spell. He gave me a grateful lick on the cheek.

I looked up at Inigo. “Go on? Are you insane? This was a terrible idea. We’re already injured. And did you _see_ those things? The way they — they —” I swallowed, and tried again. “Even this first room was nearly too much for us to handle. Who knows how much further in we’d have to go? Remember, we still don’t know whether that stupid book is even in here!”

“Ah, it was not so bad,” Inigo said. “I have fought worse. And Kirilee, that ghost had a lute! A spirit-bard here must surely mean you are meant to be here, too. I have a good feeling about this, which is very unusual, as I never have good feelings about draugr barrows. We _must_ go on.”

I buried my face in Meeko’s fur and held him while my heartrate gradually slowed. Eventually I stood up, and I nodded. I would be brave. Inigo smiled and took my hand, then led me across the room, stepping carefully over the fallen draugr.

So we pushed onwards, following the ghost through more dark corridors and chambers, some empty of all save dust and cobwebs — and some that weren’t. Over the next several hours Inigo hewed through so many of the dead that his arms were aching, my lips were sore from blowing so hard, and even Meeko’s tail only wagged feebly. They never became any less frightening, and every time I heard the dry creaking that augured a blaze of blue eyes my stomach clenched so painfully that I nearly threw up. But still we pressed on.

We followed the spirit deeper and deeper into the crypt, until I imagined I could feel the weight of hundreds of feet of earth and rock pressing down on me from above. My sharp, piercing terror eventually transformed into a dull leaden weight in my heart and in my belly. I knew that I would die down here. We would never see the sky again, and our bones would join the draugr in eternal slumber beneath the heavy earth. But still we pressed on.

Finally, the spirit brought us to a tiny alcove hidden behind a pile of rubble, and turned to face us. At his feet was an ancient skeleton, clutching a book.

“Is that … surely it can’t be.” I threw myself to my knees, stumbling with exhaustion. Hands trembling, I reached out for the leatherbound tome and wiped away the heavy coating of dust. And there it was, written in faded old-fashioned lettering:

 _King Olaf’s Verse_.

“I can’t believe it,” I breathed. “I was sure it didn’t exist. I was sure we’d come here for nothing. But this … this changes everything.”

Hope bloomed in my chest and spread through me, as warm as the first sip of a good wine. Perhaps we could survive this ordeal and reach the surface again. Perhaps we would return to the Bards’ College triumphant after all. Inigo crowed with joy.

“Thank you,” I said to the spirit, cradling the precious book to my chest. “Thank you. You don’t know what this means to me. Can you … lead us out again?”

The spirit-bard nodded, then beckoned, his pale translucent form casting a soft glow on the stones around him as he strode away.

“We’re going to make it,” I said to Inigo. For the first time that day I felt like smiling.

“Was that ever in doubt?” Inigo replied. “I told you, I will protect you. I would not have suggested we come here unless I was confident we would walk back out again. But still … I will be glad to see the sky.” He shuddered. “I do not like these places at all.”

I put the book away in my pack and we began to retrace our steps. However, it seemed the spirit was not done with us yet after all. We passed a huge wooden door that had been magically sealed when we had first approached it — and instead of turning to the left, the way I knew led to the entrance, the spirit instead somehow lowered the magical barrier and walked right through the heavy door.

“What was that about?” I said.

“Perhaps this is a shortcut?” Inigo shrugged, and opened the door.

Behind the door was a long, well-lit chamber, its walls elaborately carved with scenes of men and beasts, like nothing we’d seen in the crypt so far. We walked through the hall slowly, wide-eyed at the intricate carvings illuminated by my dancing Candlelight. At the far end we came to an enormous stone wall. It was embedded with three huge concentric stone rings, each engraved with various kinds of animals. At the centre was a small stone circle, not much larger than my palm, with three indents forming a loose triangle. We stared at it, bemused.

“What is this?” Inigo said. “Why did the spirit lead us here?”

“I don’t know … these stone rings rotate though, perhaps he wants us to do something with them?”

The spirit, however, kept pointing first at the stone circle, then at the foot still hanging from Inigo’s belt. Finally, I understood.

“Inigo! This isn’t a wall — it’s a door! And that foot thing is a key! Here, let me look more closely —”

I fumbled the deceptively heavy sculpture from Inigo’s belt, and saw that, yes, it was engraved with animals too: a wolf, a hawk, and another wolf.

“Try rotating the rings so that the outer one shows a wolf, then a hawk, then another wolf on the inner ring.”

Inigo rotated the large stone rings, grunting at the weight, until their displays matched the animals on the foot. I pushed the claws’ points into the indents. Suddenly, the door began to rumble.

We jumped backwards in fright as the door slid into the ground at our feet, revealing an enormous chamber, its roof so high it dissolved into murky darkness. All around the outside of the chamber were thrones — and each contained a draugr. My eyes widened. There must have been at least twenty in all. At the far end of the chamber steps led to a raised area, containing more throned draugr, then even higher into an area so blanketed in gloom that I couldn’t see what it contained. I turned to Inigo, about to tell him that we must turn around, that we couldn’t fight this many draugr if they were to wake … but before I could do more than open my mouth the spirit strode forward, and spoke.

“Olaf! It is time!”

I felt a trembling, and realised that not just me, but the whole room was shaking and rumbling. Meeko started to growl, his hackles up, and Inigo unslung his bow. Then, as I had feared, the draugr began to awaken. Draugr after draugr rose from their seats and stumbled towards us, brandishing swords or axes or bows, and emitting their awful, nightmarish growls and moans. We fought, and fought, and fought, the spirit alongside us, until finally the last one lay still on the ground. I nearly fell down next to it. I was so tired.

But our trials were still not over. When the last draugr fell, the spirit once again cried out:

“Arise, Olaf, my vengeance is at hand!”

I heard a loud crack, and finally understood what was at the back of the chamber. A coffin lid came crashing out of the dark, and a tall figure arose.

“Insolent bard. Die!” it rasped. It unsheathed an ancient sword, and its dead, glowing eyes moved from the ghost to where Inigo, Meeko and I stood, dirty and panting. Its mouth formed a horrible rictus of a smile.

The spectral bard surged forward, bellowing a battle cry as he gripped his translucent sword with both hands. After a quick nod to me Inigo dashed after him. He was out of arrows, and dropped his bow at my feet, instead drawing his sword as he ran. Meeko stayed by my side.

“Go,” I said to him. “Help Inigo. I’ll be okay.” My voice sounded weak and unconvincing to my ears, but Meeko acquiesced nonetheless. My fingers tightened on my flute. It felt heavy in my hand.

Afterwards I could barely remember the fight that followed. The dead King Olaf One-Eye — for that was who it must have been — fought with a ferocity I never could have imagined. Not only was it an ungodly swordsman, but it occasionally spoke some harsh words in a tongue I didn’t recognise but thought I could almost understand, and at its spoken spell a sheet of hungry, crackling ice would spread far too quickly along the ground and towards my friends.

There wasn’t time to wonder at this strange phenomenon, however, and I was only tangentially aware of Inigo, Meeko and the spirit’s furious fight at all. I was engaged in a struggle of my own: pitting my will, channelled through my little engraved flute, against that of Olaf One-Eye. Its will was mighty; awe-inspiring. It made me feel small and insignificant as an insect — and I was so, so tired. But by bringing the full force of my own will to bear, fortified by the knowledge that my friends _needed_ me, at times I was able to break through and hold the dead king for a few instants. The moments were fleeting, however, and barely gave Meeko, Inigo and the spirit time to do more than reposition themselves away from the magical ice filling the room.

The battle wore on. Minute by minute my strength was fading, and it became harder and harder to break through the draugr’s iron will. I would try to grab onto it, but the magic wouldn’t catch; my hold slipping away as though I were trying to grasp a fish with my hands. The others were slowing too. It had been a long and exhausting day, and we were all nearing the end of our strength.

It happened in a flash of timeworn steel. I had managed to finally catch hold of Olaf One-Eye for an instant, and Inigo took the opportunity to dart forward and score a hit across the draugr’s chest. But as his sword bit into the withered flesh, the draugr wrenched itself free of my magical grip and struck like a snake. Its sword sank deep into Inigo’s shoulder.

Inigo screamed as ice spread from the blade and spidered across his shoulder and chest. His cry pierced me as though I had been stabbed by the monster myself, and my shrill shriek joined his own. I screamed, watching my friend clutching at his shoulder as the blade was pulled free and the draugr readied itself for a killing blow. I screamed in terror and agony, until my scream seemed to take on a life of its own, amplifying and layering on itself and filling the cavernous hall with an unholy screeching that made my teeth vibrate and my hairs stand on end.

And — Olaf One-Eye froze.

The two remaining attackers surged forward as one: Meeko hamstrung the thing’s mouldering legs, bringing it to its knees, and with a cry of victory the spectral bard’s ghostly blade pierced the draugr’s heart. My scream guttered and died. I felt dizzy and weak. My throat hurt.

I stumbled towards Inigo. I was tired, so tired; everything hurt and my head was vibrating and what in Oblivion had _happened_ — but I pushed it all away, scrabbling for the forms to heal. Inigo was still clutching at his shoulder, but the ice had all melted with the ancient king’s fall, and he was no longer screaming in pain. My hands shook as I stretched them towards him. Where were the forms? Why couldn’t I remember the spell?

“You are all right?” Inigo said, smiling weakly at me from where he lay.

“Yes — fine — but you —”

“I am all right. It would take much more than that to stop me.”

I ignored his bravado. Blood was spreading across his shirt. Feeling woozy, I bit down hard on my tongue to achor myself to consciousness. I couldn’t afford to let myself faint.

“What are you —”

“Shush,” I interrupted. I finally had it. I pushed the spell into Inigo’s shoulder, willing it to be strong enough — I’d never healed anything this serious before. I held my breath, praying, hoping … and by Inigo’s relieved sigh knew it had taken. My knees felt like they were about to give way, and I swayed where I knelt. I was drained, wrung out, like a discarded dishcloth.

Inigo sat up, and supported my limp form. Through my weariness I felt a faint flicker of surprise at how strong his arms still were.

“Thank you. I feel much better.”

“That’s good,” I said. My thoughts moved sluggishly, and my vision had darkened around the edges. “Meeko?”

My dog snuffled, and laid his head onto my lap. He was plainly exhausted, too. I pushed my fingers into his fur.

“And where’s …”

A glowing blue blur resolved itself into the shape of the spirit-bard as it approached. He inclined his head towards first Inigo, then Meeko and me. A smile played across his features as he raised his face heavensward, and within moments he had dissolved into nothing. I stared at the empty air where he had stood.

“You can finally rest,” I whispered. “Just like the old king. Thank you, sir bard. I wish I knew who you were, to sing your praises.”

“I am glad he was here,” Inigo said. He pulled himself to his feet, groaning, then reached down to help me up. “Come, my friend.” He took my hand and drew me away from the husk of the once-king. “Let us go home.”

By the time we found our way out of the crypt it was very late at night. The inky black sky sprinkled with stars stretched above us, and I had never felt so glad to feel the fresh night air on my face. I was near falling over with exhaustion. 

“You are tired, for magic,” Inigo said. “Shall we walk to Frost River and wait for a carriage instead?”

“No. I want to be home,” I said dully. “I can do this.”

The forms for Recall moved from my mind to my hands, costing me far more effort than I was used to. It felt as though I were dredging mud. Nevertheless, the spell took, and an instant later Meeko and I were in Solitude once more. I let out the breath I had been holding. With a final twist of effort I then summoned Inigo using the spell from Langley.

We crept into the Skeever via the back stairs and went straight to our rooms. I set the book at the heart of this whole mess onto my desk and stared at it dully, my arms limp by my sides. Tomorrow I would take it to Viarmo, and I would finally be a member of the Bards’ College. I didn’t care if this test was a false one, or just some stupid joke. Despite the fact that I should have been afforded the respect of a real audition, and admitted based on my musical skill, I had today endured horrors the likes of which that elf couldn’t even imagine to bring him his stupid book. He _would_ admit me.

* * *

I slept terribly. I dreamed that I was trapped in endless crumbling stone corridors, pursued by moaning draugr clutching at my clothes. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t run: it felt as though my legs were encased in molasses and I could only move in painfully slow, agonising steps. I was trying to find Inigo and Meeko, from whom I had become separated. I could hear Inigo calling for me, and Meeko’s barking; always just around the next corner, but never there by the time I arrived, and with the endless swarm of the dead always just behind. Finally the corridors opened into King Olaf’s burial chamber, and there, at last, were Meeko and Inigo — held aloft by the draugr, one in each hand. Olaf One-Eye turned to me and grinned, fixing me with dead, ice-blue eyes, and suddenly I couldn’t move at all, and could only watch in horror as first he snapped Inigo’s neck one-handed, then tore off Meeko’s head with his bare teeth. The draugr behind me dragged me down, and Sheogorath’s mad laughter mingled with my screams as I tore myself awake.

My eyes snapped open. I was breathing hard, as though I’d actually spent the night running, and my sheets were damp with sweat. I felt cold and clammy. My heart raced.

 _They’re safe. You’re safe. Olaf One-Eye is properly dead now, and you even got the book. It’s okay. You_ won _. Today you’re officially going to become a member of the Bards’ College!_

As my breathing steadied, and my nightmare drifted away like clouds scattered by the wind, I felt a slow smile creep across my face and a mounting excitement in my breast. We’d _done_ it. We’d really done it. I could still hardly believe that not only had the book actually been in the tomb, but we’d managed to retrieve it. And now — now I could finally return to the College, triumphant. I could hardly wait to see the look on that smug elf’s face when I thrust the long-lost _King Olaf’s Verse_ into his hands.

I slipped out of bed and padded across the room to the washbasin, careful not to wake Meeko. It was very early still, my room barely lit by that strange, cold light that preceded the dawn. After washing the sweat off my face I sat down at my desk in front of the book. I hadn’t had the attention to spare for it the day before, but I now found myself intensely curious about what this long-lost verse was all about — why did Viarmo even want it, assuming he was at least being truthful about that much? He had said something about a festival …

Very carefully, I opened the book and leafed through the pages. My eyebrows climbed higher and higher up my forehead as I read. As I had expected from the title, it was an epic poem about the Nords’ legendary First Era king, Olaf One-Eye, who had gained fame through his capture of the dragon Numinex in Whiterun. I’d been told the dragon’s skeleton was still displayed in the city’s palace, now called Dragonsreach in honour of this feat — I was looking forward to seeing it myself, someday. However … this verse painted a very different picture of the ancient king than the one I’d learned in my history lessons. The text was ancient, presumably First Era itself, and much of it completely illegible; but the bard who had penned it — Svaknir — wrote of a king who was cruel and deceitful rather than noble and bold, and whose capture of Numinex was ‘a con for the ages’.

I read through the whole verse twice, straining in vain to read the words which had been lost to the ages. What did they say? Why had Svaknir called Olaf’s legend false, and his dragon-capture a con? After having fought the undead King Olaf I certainly had no trouble believing he’d been a vicious tyrant in life, too. Had the spectral bard been Svaknir himself? It would explain why he had led us to the resting-place of the verse. No artist ever wanted their life’s work to languish in obscurity.

By the time I closed the book and dressed the first beams of the morning sun had begun to creep across the polished wooden floorboards. Did Viarmo know this verse painted such an unflattering picture of the ancient Nord king? Was that why he wanted it? I thought I remembered him saying it would convince Elisif to allow the College to resume the Burning of King Olaf Festival … I supposed it _was_ evidence that the festival had ancient roots, even if the original purpose had been to denounce Olaf, rather than celebrate him. Assuming Svaknir himself was being truthful, of course.

But that wasn’t my problem, and neither were the missing chunks. Personally I couldn’t give two septims about the festival or the verse. All I cared about was that this old leatherbound book was my ticket into the College.

Leaving a snoring Meeko on my bed, I slipped silently down the back stairs of the inn and into the crisp early morning air, my lute on my back, the precious volume clutched to my chest. I wanted my first interaction with Inigo and the Viniuses today to be as Kirilee, the newest member of the Bards’ College. Partly it was in anticipation of the surprise and excitement I knew I could expect at my announcement, but there was also a tiny, fearful part of me that was sure something would go wrong. Viarmo might be away. Or he might not accept the book. He might call it a fake, or turn me away because so much of it was missing, or … Dozens of worst-case scenarios chased themselves through my head. After my first attempt had been such a colossal failure I was frightened about getting my hopes up again, only to have them dashed against the Headmaster’s rocky visage. So I would go to the College in secret, and alone.

Despite my private worries a rising bubble of happiness and excitement grew within me as I hurried through the near-empty streets. If all went well I would soon be returning to the Skeever for a double celebration, for today was not only my potential first day as a student of Skyrim’s Bards’ College. It was also my twenty-second birthday.

I knocked on the front door of the College, excitement and nervousness mounting. This had to work. It _had_ to. I rocked on the balls of my feet while I waited for what felt like an age, before the door was finally answered by a curly-haired young Redguard who looked far too cheerful for this time of morning.

“Good morning! Can I help you, friend?” he said with a warm smile.

“Um, hello. I was hoping to speak with Headmaster Viarmo? You can tell him …” A wry thought struck me. “Tell him Just Kirilee is here to see him.”

“Of course! Wait — I’ve seen you at the Winking Skeever before. You play very well! You’re here to join us?”

“That’s — that’s what I’m hoping, yes.” A flush crept into my cheeks.

“Wonderful! I can’t wait for us to play together. I’ll just go fetch the Headmaster — Kirilee, was it? My name’s Ataf.” He stuck out a hand, and I shook it. I noticed he didn’t have the usual lutenist’s sculpted fingernails — perhaps he was a singer, or even a poet? Regardless, I hoped we would share some classes, assuming I was admitted. His open friendliness was refreshing, after my previous reception.

Ataf disappeared back into the College, not closing the door all the way behind him. I took this as an encouraging sign. I tried to peek through the crack, but only got a sense of a light and airy space, a tiled floor, and bookshelves.

About five minutes later the door was pulled open by Headmaster Viarmo, who also seemed far more alert and awake than any sane person should have been at that hour. Were all the bards here morning people? I shuddered.

The Headmaster regarded me with a fair bit more interest than he had the previous time we had faced each other. His mouth quirked in a sardonic half-smile.

“So, the mysterious Just Kirilee returns. Remembered your surname at last, have you? Or your letter of introduction?”

“No,” I said. I held out _King Olaf’s Verse_. “I have your book.”

The old mer stared at me for a moment, his face a mask. My heart clenched. What would he do? Finally he reached out and plucked the book from my outstretched hands. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly as they alighted on the stained leather cover.

“… You’d better come in,” he said at last.

Over a month after I had expected to first set foot over its threshold, I finally followed Headmaster Viarmo into the Bards’ College. I looked around appreciatively as he led me through the entrance hall — an airy room flooded with morning sunlight, both lavishly and tastefully decorated with paintings, tapestries and potted plants — and into an office on the left. In stark contrast to the elegant entryway, this room was a picture of barely-organised chaos. Almost every surface was stacked high with books, files and teetering piles of paper, and I had an immediate urge to breathe more shallowly, lest I disturb the precarious balance of the space.

Viarmo sat down behind his huge wooden desk. There were two seats in front of it, but he didn’t invite me to sit down, by then clearly completely absorbed by the book.

“This — this is really it,” he said. “I have to admit, I didn’t think it would actually be there.”

I blinked. I hadn’t expected such honesty — then again, he seemed to be talking more to himself than to me.

He leafed slowly through the _Verse_. “How did you manage to find this?” He didn’t wait for or seem to expect a response, however, and instead continued paging. “But … this won’t do. No, it won’t do at all. The copy is incomplete. It’s aged to the point that parts are completely unreadable. And the bits that are … well, we’ve come a long way since the First Era.”

“What does that mean?” I asked in a strangled voice. It was happening, wasn’t it? He was going to turn me away again …

“It means I can’t read it to the court. Which means I can’t convince Elisif of the importance of the Burning of King Olaf Festival, which means she won’t reverse her decision to cancel the festival. Xarxes’ tongue, girl, weren’t you listening?” he snapped.

I was starting to grow angry myself. After all I had been through, all I had endured, he _still_ wasn’t satisfied? The last line of the verse clearly stated the importance of the festival! He was just looking for a reason to be dissatisfied, even after I’d called his bluff and actually retrieved his stupid old poem into the bargain. I’d done what he wanted. What Elisif thought of the _Verse_ and the stupid festival _wasn’t my problem_.

“Why don’t you just make it up?” I said, trying and failing to stay composed. “After all, you all but said you could do better yourself.” Stupid stuck-up old mer.

“Make it up? That doesn’t seem appropriate …” But I noticed a gleam in his eye, and knew my half-sarcastic suggestion had caught. “Then again … I suppose I could copy his style based on what’s here … Hmm …”

He paged back to the beginning of the book, and began to read — rather unnecessarily pompously, I thought.

“ _O, Olaf, our subjugator, the one-eyed betrayer;  
_ _death-dealing demon and dragon-killing King.  
_ _Your legend is lies, lurid and false;  
_ _your cunning capture of Numinex, a con for the ages._ ”

He paused, and looked up at me. “If that’s a lie, what do we say really happened?”

“You’re asking _me_?” I couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d asked for his pot-plant’s input. “Why?”

“Humour me, girl.”

So, another test, then. I gritted my teeth. I’d had enough. I wouldn’t go along with his stupid games any longer.

“Why don’t you say that Olaf was actually Numinex. A dragon in human form.” _Stupid, puffed-up old mer. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes._

To my surprise, however, the corner of his mouth just twitched, and he said, “That’s great. The court will love it. I’m writing it in.”

I blinked. I certainly hadn’t expected _that_.

“ _No shouting match between dragon and man, no fire or fury did this battle entail.  
_ _Olaf was Numinex in human form, on moonless nights he would spread wings and sail._

“Yes, very provocative indeed. An inspired suggestion.” I strained, but couldn’t detect even a hint of sarcasm in the Headmaster’s voice. Was this man a complete idiot? He cleared his throat and read the next chunk of verse that preceded an illegible gap:

“ _Olaf grabbed power, by promise and threat;  
_ _From Falkreath to Winterhold, they fell to their knees;  
_ _But Solitude stood strong, Skyrim’s truest protectors.  
_ _Olaf’s vengeance was instant, inspired and wicked._

“Hm. According to history Solitude attacked Winterhold, but this seems to be saying Olaf reacted. What do we say happened?”

“Olaf sacked it in dragon form, obviously.” I gave Viarmo a bland smile.

“Oho, that is exciting! I’m sure the court and the Jarl will love it. Let’s see …

“ _Olaf gave orders, Winterhold disguises. An attack on Solitude total destruction to follow._  
 _Because Solitude would not soon bend knee, Olaf would hurt them while his status accrued. He sacked Winterhold in dragonform, and bent their minds to blame Solitude._ ”

I stifled a snort.

“Yes, excellent indeed. And now just the conclusion:

“ _So ends the story of Olaf the liar, a thief and a scoundrel we of Solitude commit to the fire.  
_ _In Solitude bards train for their service, they also gather each year and burn a King who deserves it._ ”

I wondered whether it would be going too far to applaud, and decided it probably would be. I settled on another bland smile.

“Will that do, do you think, Headmaster?”

“Yes. That’ll do nicely. I need to head to the palace immediately to present this. You’d better come along, too.”

I started — Elisif! If I came as a bard, would she recognise me? But I had no choice, not if the Headmaster himself wished me to come. So I rearranged my face into what I hoped was a look of excited incredulity at being invited to attend _Elisif herself_ , and crossed my fingers under the desk that Viarmo hadn’t noticed my moment of panic and wondered what it might have meant.

The streets of upper-class Solitude passed in a blur as I hurried after Viarmo towards the Blue Palace, struggling to keep pace with his much longer legs. My irritation with the stuffy old mer ebbed away, to be replaced by giddy delight. It was happening, it was working! I wondered what Elisif would think of the new and improved _Verse_. A sudden stab of worry struck me. What if she didn’t like it? Would I still be admitted? My flippant treatment of the missing bits of the poem didn’t seem like such a brilliant idea any more.

I stood a little awkwardly beside Viarmo, trying to keep my face down, as he put his request to Elisif. She examined us both with interest, but to my relief seemed to completely forget about me when Viarmo said that _King Olaf’s Verse_ had been recovered.

“I remember you mentioned something that would convince Us the festival should take place — but I certainly didn’t expect the long-lost _Verse_!” she said. “Please, proceed.”

I blanched. Surely she didn’t intend for Viarmo to read the whole thing out loud, right here and now? It was several dozen stanzas long! I hadn’t even had breakfast yet! From the way Elisif settled more comfortably into her seat, however, it seemed that that was indeed what she expected. I sighed and tried to look politely interested as Viarmo launched into the epic, while instead studying Elisif’s face for any hint of recognition for me, or displeasure for the verse.

Thankfully, I needn’t have worried on either account. Elisif rose to her feet as Viarmo took a flowery bow, and applauded more enthusiastically than anyone else in the room.

“You have proven your point, Viarmo,” she said. “The festival is truly a celebration of Solitude and condemnation of false kings. You may resume putting it on, with Our blessing.”

Interesting. I’d have expected rather more shock at the denunciation of Olaf the Hero — but perhaps the recent murder of her husband had rather changed her perspective on Nord battle-kings.

“I thank you, and the College thanks you, my Jarl,” Viarmo said, bowing again. He then turned to me as the court resumed its normal activities. “Unbelievable! She’s really allowing it! I can’t begin to thank you enough.”

He seemed genuinely delighted. I supposed perhaps this festival _was_ actually important to him, which was perhaps why the lost verse had been the first thing that came to mind when setting me his impossible ‘please-get-lost-now’ task. Or had this _actually_ been an entry exam, for some unfathomable reason?

“So … does this mean I’m a member of the College now?” I ventured, barely daring to ask. I held my breath. Surely, _surely_ …

“Soon, soon,” he said, gesturing dismissively with one hand. The other still clutched the _Verse_. “These things must be done properly. You’ll be inducted as part of the festival itself, tonight. We’ll need a few hours to get everything ready.”

“But then …”

“Then you’ll be an official student, yes.”

My heart soared. _Finally._ What a perfect birthday gift.

Viarmo and I parted after exiting the palace; him heading back to the College, me to the Skeever. I was bursting to see Inigo, and Corpulus, and Minette, and Sorex — I could picture their proud, delighted smiles so clearly in my head. I’d need to write home, let Mother and Father know too, of course … but somehow I was far more excited about first telling my Solitude family about my success. For that was who they had become to me, I realised. The Skeever was home; Corpulus, Sorex, Minette — and of course Inigo and Meeko — my family here. My heart swelled, and I increased my speed to a fast walk, nearly a jog.

I was about halfway back to the inn when I rounded a corner and spotted Inigo’s distinctive purple form heading towards me, Meeko at his side. I broke into a broad smile, and ran to him.

“Inigo! Inigo, it worked! We took the poem to Elisif, and she reinstated the festival, and Viarmo says I’ll be inducted formally there, tonight. It all went completely smoothly! Well, nearly, I lost my temper a bit when Viarmo wanted me to help fill in the missing bits, you’ll find it very funny, I’m sure — Inigo, what’s wrong?” For as I had drawn near enough to see his expression, I saw that he wore not the look of pleased pride I had expected, but instead seemed arrested and drawn. He stared at me wordlessly; pityingly.

“Inigo … what is it?” I said, my heart sinking horribly.

“Kirilee. My friend. Sorex is dead.”


	12. Death and Life

Sorex, dead? No. It couldn’t be. I must have misheard. I stared at Inigo, begging, pleading with my eyes for it not to be true, for it all just to be some poorly-thought-out prank.

“I am sorry, Kirilee. It — it happened last night, while we were at the tomb. Corpulus told me. There was a fistfight which Sorex tried to break up. One of them had had too much to drink and pulled out a knife. He … he stabbed Sorex in the gut. Sorex was dead before a healer could be summoned.”

I could see it all too clearly in my mind’s eye. The brawlers, perhaps their pent-up tension about the war inflamed by alcohol, arguing until things got out of hand. Sorex — kind, gruff Sorex who cared so much about everyone in the inn having a good time — intervening. A stupid, unthinking decision. A life cut short.

I began to cry. Great, heaving sobs wracked my body. It wasn’t fair. He’d just been doing his job. He didn’t even want to work in an inn. How could this have happened?

Then a thought slid through me like a knife.

“Inigo,” I said, stricken. “This is my fault.”

“ _What_?”

“I know some healing magic. If I’d been there — if we hadn’t gone to the tomb — if —”

The grief and guilt overwhelmed me, and I hugged my arms around my middle, bent double with the pain. I could have prevented this. If I hadn’t gone chasing after the book … or if I’d been quicker, been stronger, come home sooner … I cried and I cried, barely noticing as Inigo took me gently by the arm and steered me off the streets. Sorex was gone. Sorex with his crooked smile and easy laugh, who had welcomed me into his home and his family with open arms. Sorex who had been perhaps my earliest fan in Solitude, encouraging me in my dreams from my very first night in Skyrim, and listening attentively to every one of my performances. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

I blindly followed, barely able to see through my tear-filled eyes, Inigo’s warm furred hand in mine the only thing anchoring me to reality. Finally he pushed me onto a bench underneath a tree. I dully realised we must be in a park, though the knowledge felt meaningless. Meeko rested his head in my lap. Sorex had always liked Meeko. I cried harder.

“This is not your fault,” Inigo said softly, after my tears had run dry.

“I — I know,” I hiccupped. “I know, even if I’d been there, I could never have healed something that bad. But … but …”

“But you still think you could have helped. Wish you could have helped.”

I nodded miserably, but quickly stopped, because my head hurt from all the crying. My eyes felt raw, and when I blinked it was as though I was scraping sand over them. I didn’t care. Sorex deserved every tear. It was right that I should hurt for his passing, both physically and emotionally.

Inigo put an arm around my shoulders and drew me close. “I am sorry. It is never easy. I will miss him too.”

We sat there together for a long while, the sharp pain of loss stabbing into me as regularly as a heartbeat, each flicker of memory prompting a new jab of pain and sorrow. Each felt as real as a physical wound, and I soon felt as though my heart had been covered in a hundred cuts from which it bled emotion. Eventually there was simply no more left to bleed. I sat next to Inigo, staring into nothing, feeling empty and hollow.

“Are you ready to go to Corpulus and Minette?” Inigo said at last.

I wasn’t. But I dragged myself from the bench and followed Inigo back to the Winking Skeever anyway.

Corpulus had closed the inn for the day, but Inigo let us in through the back, and led me to the part of the building set aside for Corpulus and Minette’s living quarters — Sorex had lived separately. As soon as Inigo shut the door behind us Minette threw herself into my arms. Her eyes were red and her face splotchy, but she wasn’t crying. I suspected that, like me, she had run out of tears. Nevertheless, she shook in my arms, a small keening sound escaping from her that broke my heart all over again. I held her tightly, but couldn’t think of anything to say. What words could possibly have served?

“You’ve heard, then,” said Corpulus in a dry rasp. I looked to where he sat in a wooden dining chair. The jolly, smiling innkeeper was gone, replaced by a man who had gone beyond grief. He had aged a dozen years in the day since I’d last seen him, when he had wished me luck on my adventure, and packed us an extra pair of apples. His skin looked papery and stretched thin, and his eyes … his eyes were bottomless pits of anguish; deep dark wells in which all joy in life had drowned. No parent should ever have to outlive their child.

“I’m sorry,” I said softly.

“So am I.”

There was nothing much more that could be said.

* * *

I sat with Corpulus and Minette for the rest of the day. I knew I should have been doing more, helping as Inigo was by bringing food and drink — all of which remained untouched — or by trying to offer comfort, or … or … _something_. But I could do little more than share in their grief. Every so often I would think of Sorex, remember the way he had smiled at me, or how he had liked to whistle while sweeping, or his fierce gruffness, or the longing in his eyes when he had spoken of the places he’d one day like to visit; and I would once again have to hold back sobs, knowing that giving in to my pain would only make things harder for Corpulus and poor little Minette, who had now lost both her mother and her brother.

The hours passed too slowly, but eventually, after what felt like an eternity, I stood up. Little though I wanted to, I still had to present myself at the College’s newly-reinstated festival. It was to be my induction into the College, after all — though that hardly seemed to matter, now. I would have traded a dozen _King Olaf’s Verses_ and forgone ever joining the College if it would have brought Sorex back to us.

“You’ll be back, after?” Corpulus croaked, as Minette clung desperately to me. I nodded. Of course I would. They were family.

I did my best to put on a brave face for the Burning of King Olaf Festival, but my heart was back in the Skeever with Corpulus and Minette. The gay celebration only reminded me of how different this day should have been. The Viniuses should have been here with me, all three of them, cheering proudly as Viarmo made a speech in my honour and pronounced me an official member of the College. My first performance for the other bards should have been an uplifting work of joy, rather than a funeral dirge. And I should have spent the evening celebrating, humbly accepting the other bards’ accolades and getting to know my new classmates and teachers, rather than withdrawing as early as I could politely manage. It was all wrong. It wasn’t supposed to have happened like this.

The following days passed in a hazy unreality. During my waking hours I felt as though I was dreaming — nothing felt quite real, almost as though I were at a slightly different angle to the rest of the world. Had it not been for Inigo and Meeko I wouldn’t have left my bed. As it was, I drifted through time but didn’t really experience it; went through the motions of daily life but wasn’t at all present. Inigo insisted I must leave my room, and took Meeko and I on daily walks around the city, but afterwards I couldn’t even remember where we had walked, or whether anyone had spoken to us. Most of my time I spent simply gazing blankly into nothingness for hours at a time. Meeko and Inigo were there with me, I thought, though I could never recall for certain. All I could feel was a dull numbness, interspersed with stabbing bouts of grief and weeping that left me feeling even more empty and hollow.

I couldn’t touch my lute. I received a letter from Viarmo after a few days, asking me to come to the College — probably to discuss my complete and utter lack of attendance at any classes, I assumed, and negligence of any duties to the College my membership may have incurred. I couldn’t bring myself to care. What did it matter if I went to class or not, or was even kicked out so soon after being admitted? What did anything matter, any more?

I knew I should have cared, just as I knew I should have been handling the whole situation much better than I was. I should have been there for the Viniuses. I should have been a bastion of support for them in this difficult time, rather than barely managing more than sitting silently with Minette, holding her hand. I knew I was responding to Sorex’s death like a weak, soft little girl unable to handle the realities of life. I knew that I hadn’t even known him that well, all things considered, and it was ridiculous for me to be taking his death so hard. But I couldn’t help how I was feeling. So much had happened in the short stretch of time since I’d come to Skyrim. I had seen more death and violence in the past month and a half than I had in my entire previous two decades back at home. For weeks I had felt so completely out of my depth, constantly struggling just to stay afloat in this harsh new land I had chosen to try and find a place in. Sorex’s death was the capstone on that experience; the ultimate proof that life was ugly and unfair, and bad things could and did happen to good people.

The morning of the funeral came. It felt both like an eternity had passed since Inigo had met me on the street with his awful news, and as fresh as if I had only learned of Sorex’s fate an hour before. Inigo tumbled me out of bed. I had been lying under the covers, staring at the ceiling, for a good hour.

“Today, my friend, you will bathe, and you will wash your hair,” Inigo sternly told me, and shepherded me towards the bathing room.

“Of course I will.” My voice was croaky from disuse. I had not spoken in … how long, now?

“Yes, of course you will. And you will feel better for doing it. I know you have had a difficult time this past week, but it will not do to endlessly wallow in your despair. Doing normal, everyday things will help you feel better.”

To my surprise, he was right. Whether it was the familiarity of the bathing ritual or the simple pleasure of feeling clean once more, by the time I emerged from the bathing room it was as though a fog had cleared from my mind. I still felt weak and hollow, as wan as if I’d been recovering from a long illness, but I felt a little better, and even managed to weakly return Inigo’s smile.

“How did you know that would help?” I asked.

“My parents. And Fergus.”

Of course. I felt both stupid and ashamed to have forgotten.

“The bleakness is worst when you allow it to rule you,” Inigo said as he led me back up the stairs and to my room. “After my parents died, Fergus and I helped each other. We made each other keep going, and keep living. Death is always a tragedy, my friend. But life goes on after death. If you forget that, and allow the bleakness to claim you … then it is not only the one life that was ended too soon.” He turned to me once we entered my room. I had never seen him looking so serious. “After Fergus … after Fergus I had nobody to give me strength, and I did not make myself keep living. It was the same thing after — after I shot the arrow. Those were the two worst times in my life. I do not want you to give up the way I did. I do not want you to have your life stolen away. You must keep living. Do you understand, Kirilee?”

I nodded. I understood.

“Good.” He held up my red gown. “You should wear this today.”

“Really? You don’t think it’s too … inappropriate, for a funeral?”

“No. Sorex loved this dress on you. It is appropriate.”

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I blinked them away. “Okay. I’ll wear it.”

* * *

Corpulus had gone to the temple early to help with preparations, and had charged Inigo and I with escorting Minette over when it was time. She clung to my hand with a fierce and desperate intensity as we walked through the streets in our best finery, and didn’t let go even after we had taken our seats in the front row of pews. The sun shone through the stained glass, painting the ground a kaleidoscope of colours, and a soft muttering filled the air. Sorex had been well-liked, and the temple was nearly filled with mourners come to say goodbye.

Corpulus soon joined us, looking pale and drawn; as deflated as an empty water-skin. The twinkling light in his eyes still hadn’t come back. I wondered whether it ever would.

 _Remember what Inigo said,_ a small voice whispered from the back of my mind. _You have to keep living, and so do they. Make that your task over the coming days. You’re a musician — it’s your job to remind people that there’s joy in life, even during the darkest times. Help Corpulus and Minette remember to live._

I firmed my resolve. Inigo was right. I would live, and I would help my friends — my family — do the same. I turned to Corpulus and squeezed his hand. Difficult though it was, I forced my mouth into a smile.

“This is a beautiful service. And look at all these people … I bet Sorex is looking down on us from Aetherius right now, touched that so many people loved him.”

He tried to return my smile, though it looked more like a grimace. “Thank you, larkling. I’m sure he is.” Then softly, a moment later, “… If only Felix could be here too.”

“Ssh,” said Minette. The High Priest had taken his place at the front.

I let go of Corpulus’ hand and fixed my eyes on the priest as he began to speak. That was right, there was another brother, wasn’t there, back in Cyrodiil? What would become of him, now?

The thought soon slipped away, however, and for the rest of the ceremony I thought only of Sorex. The priest’s sermon was brief, but was followed by longer speeches from Corpulus, as well as some of Sorex’s closest friends. Corpulus also gestured once to his daughter, but she just shook her head, her face glazed with tears.

My own eyes hadn’t remained dry for long either, but these tears felt … good, somehow. Cathartic. While the previous days had been filled with tears shed in terrible stabbing grief and pain, those which came while listening to those closest to Sorex speak about how much they had loved him felt instead like tears of healing. I would miss him, but I would endure, and continue to live.

Once the ceremony was over the guests began to file back to the Skeever for the wake. Corpulus went ahead, leaving us to once again take Minette. She refused to budge from her seat until the temple was empty of all save us and the burial casket.

“Kirilee,” she said, once we were alone. Her small voice echoed in the cavernous hall.

“Yes, Minette?”

“You … you’ll stay, won’t you? With us? You won’t leave?”

I looked to where she sat beside me, but she kept her red-rimmed brown eyes cast resolutely forward, and fixed on the casket containing her brother’s remains. Her mouth was set, and I could tell she was working very hard not to start crying again.

My heart cracked. I would have to leave, one day, whether to go back home to Aldcroft or to move on to somewhere new. I didn’t intend to spend the rest of my life at the Skeever.

This didn’t seem like the right time to say so, however. I thought suddenly of how all this must have felt to Minette … Her mother, dead of a wasting sickness, or so I’d been told. Her middle brother, choosing to stay behind when they’d moved to Skyrim. And now her oldest brother had abandoned her too. Or so it might have felt to the lonely, old-souled eleven-year-old.

“I’ll always be a part of your life, Minette,” I said. “I promise.”

She threw her arms around me, and from her silent shaking I could tell she had once again given in to tears.

* * *

We returned to the Skeever to find the wake in full flow, and half the population of Solitude packing the inn to the rafters. Despite my sorrow I felt my heart lift a little. Sorex would have loved this, and it felt like a fitting way to honour his memory.

“I think I’m going to go to my room,” Minette said, finally dropping my hand.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No. I want a bit of time alone. Thanks, though,” she said with a watery smile. “I’ll be back later.” I watched her wend her way through the crowd, and disappear into the back. There was none of the usual self-assured spring in her stride, and even her curls hung flat and limp.

“Poor girl,” I said to Inigo.

“Yes. But she is strong. She will be all right.” He laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. “… And how about you? Will you be all right?”

“I will,” I said. “I thought a lot about what you said. You’re right. I … I have to keep living. And I have to help Minette and Corpulus keep living, too.”

Inigo’s face broke into a broad smile. “I am glad to hear you say it. So, shall we get ourselves some drinks, and toast to our friend’s memory?”

“Yes. But just the one, for me.”

“Oh?”

I nodded towards the stairs. “I’m going to go get my lute. I want to play.”

And play I did. In fact, I played all afternoon, evening and into the night, stopping only when my fingers began to bleed and my voice to crack. Sorex had loved my music. I could think of no better parting gift to him. But more than that … I could think of no better way to help those left behind.

I had always known that there was a magic in music; that a musician held in her hands a key to unlock the hidden emotions of the heart. But never before had I really experienced just how powerful that key could be. As I played and sang I felt it welling up within me, and saw it also reflected in the faces of the people filling the room: my lute and voice made the roomful of mourners _feel_ not just the sorrow of Sorex’s passing, but the knowledge that there was life beyond that sorrow, and hope in a new day.

 _Mourn,_ my music said; _Mourn for a friend who was lost too soon, for it is good and right to do so. But do not forget that tomorrow the sun will rise. A child will smile. A new life will begin._

_Mourn a life that is lost, but do not forget to live._


	13. First Lessons

The next morning, for the first time since Inigo and I had left for Dead Men’s Respite, I forced myself out of bed at a reasonable hour and downstairs for breakfast. The common room was empty but for Corpulus, Minette, Inigo and a smattering of patrons. Sorex’s absence gaped like a great hole. My eyes flicked to the corner where he would usually sit of a morning, doing the previous day’s accounts, and I felt a lump rising in my throat. I swallowed it, blinking hard. I _would_ be strong for Corpulus and Minette.

I sat at the bar between Inigo and Minette. Minette muttered a hello but did not look up from her book — I could tell she’d been crying again. I squeezed her shoulder in what I hoped was a reassuring way.

“Morning, Kirilee. Breakfast?” said Corpulus in a dull, flat voice.

“Please. But I’ll get it myself.” I slipped off the stool and into the back room, returning a few minutes later with a plate loaded with bread, cheese and sliced tomatoes, as well as two mugs of tea. I placed one mug in front of Minette.

“Here, Minette. It’s lavender and honey.”

“Thanks,” she said thickly, still keeping her face down.

Corpulus gave me a grateful nod when he saw Minette reach out a hand and draw the mug towards her. “Thank you for all your music yesterday, Kirilee,” he said, after she had taken a sip. “It helped a great deal. I’m not sure how, exactly, but …” He struggled to find words for a few moments, then gave up with a resigned shrug. “Anyway. It helped. I really appreciate it.”

“I’m glad. And you’re welcome. I’m … sorry I haven’t been playing more, lately.”

“No need. Can’t say I blame you … I don’t know whether I’d be able to find any music in my heart, right now.” Inigo reached out and put a hand over his. I expected Corpulus to withdraw his own, but he didn’t.

“But I’ll be playing again. From tonight,” I said. “The usual time?”

Corpulus’ face broke into the first genuine smile I’d seen in over a week, and even Minette finally lifted her eyes to meet mine. They were very red. “Really?” she croaked, while Corpulus said, “You’re sure?”

“I promise,” I said. “Yesterday showed me just how important it is to keep going. To keep playing. I’ll be here tonight.” I grabbed a last slice of bread and cheese and swung myself from my stool.

“Where are you going?” Inigo asked. “Will you not stay a while?”

“I can’t. I’m well overdue to present myself at the College.”

Inigo smiled broadly and patted me on the back. “That is good, my friend. I am very glad. We will wait here, then, in eager anticipation of stories all about your first day.”

I returned his smile, though it took a little effort. “I’m sure I’ll have all kinds of exciting tales to tell.”

* * *

Despite the rather gloomy breakfast, my spirits couldn’t help but lift as I walked with Meeko through the broad upper city streets. It was finally my first day at the Bards’ College! I had been looking forward to this day for so long — ever since I’d first decided, months ago now, that I would make this journey to Skyrim. I was intensely curious about what it would be like. I knew that most classes at this particular College were actual _classes_ , with multiple students in attendance. While many common-born children back home who couldn’t afford private tutors might attend a school, I had only ever been taught in a one-on-one context; whether lute or history or deportment. What would it be like to have classmates? Although I expected that for lute, at the very least, I would receive private lessons. I was too advanced for anything taught in a group setting to be of much use. Voice, too, perhaps.

I waved to Taarie as I passed her carrying a few paper-wrapped parcels. She made as if to stop, but I called to her, “Can’t chat Taarie, sorry! I’m due at the College!”

“Good luck,” she said. “And give that dusty old mer a kick up the backside for me.”

I giggled, but her words brought a pang of nerves. Viarmo had been much more genial with me the day I’d returned the _Verse_ and at the festival that evening, but it had been over a full week since then, and I’d now ignored three of his summons to present myself at the College. Would he be angry with me? Had I ruined any favour I’d won by bringing back his precious festival?

It was with mounting apprehension that I knocked on his office door and was told to enter.

“Good morning, Headmaster,” I said nervously.

“Good morning. Glad to see you at last.”

“You wanted to speak to me, sir?”

He had been writing at his desk, but now looked up, and I braced myself for the chiding I was sure was about to come — but instead he just said blandly, “Yes. As a member of the College you’ll be receiving a small stipend. I need to know whether you have an account with the East Empire Company into which you’d like it deposited, or whether you’d prefer it paid to you directly.”

I stared at him in confusion. “Um, directly would be preferable.”

“Fine. The stipend is to cover your living expenses, but also your outfitting. Even as a junior bard it is expected that you maintain the appropriate image of the College’s status. We expect you to be clothed appropriately.”

Well, that would be no problem, at least. I had already been slowly but surely building up a new wardrobe from Radiant Raiment, whenever I could afford the coin for a new outfit. Some extra spending money would definitely expedite that process.

“Yes, sir. Was … was there anything else?”

“Oh, yes. Your classes.” He must have noticed my look of apprehension, because he chuckled, and said, “You’re worried about the ones you’ve missed? Don’t be. The students here are all adults, and are treated as such. Whether or not you attend classes, and how often, is entirely on your own shoulders.”

My confusion only deepened. Wasn’t this the premiere institution for the bardic arts in the whole province? Why wouldn’t excellence and rigour be not only expected, but demanded? Particularly after what it had taken for me to be admitted? Master Ylbert certainly would have had my hide had I ever missed a lesson back home — but I supposed perhaps it was different, when a lesson included multiple students. Nevertheless, I resolved to apply myself with just as much rigour as had been expected of me back home.

“Now, as for your lessons themselves —”

“Yes, sir,” I interrupted. “You’ll need to know my current progress and aptitude in the various bardic schools, I expect? Well, I only have a basic grounding in the drum, but —”

“Ohoho, no girl, I don’t need to hear all that!” Viarmo interrupted me in turn, waving a hand dismissively. “All our new bards begin at the same level. You may attend the beginner lute, flute and drum classes, as well as music theory, aural, and verse and history if you’ve a mind. And here —” He slid a slim volume of sheet music across the desk. “Your first task as a fresh new student at our esteemed College is to learn the songs in this.”

I took the bound folio — it was entitled _Songs of Skyrim_. I opened it, and saw it contained only four very simple songs: _The Age of Aggression_ , _The Age of Oppression_ , _Ragnar the Red_ and _The Dragonborn Comes_.

“But, sir,” I said, puzzled, “I already know these.” I had in fact known them since my very first day in Solitude, after hearing Lisette perform them a half-dozen times each. They were extremely short and straightforward, but also very popular, and I heard them at almost every inn or tavern I visited. Over the weeks I had grown to loathe them with a passion. _The Age of Aggression_ and _The Age of Oppression_ weren’t even different songs, merely the same melody with slightly different words!

Viarmo wasn’t listening, however, and was already ushering me from his office. “If you work hard, in a week or so I might hear you demonstrate your proficiency of your first song. Off you trot, now! I think Master Ateia is about to hold her beginner flute lecture, if you feel like joining in.”

I stood outside his office for a few moments after the door had clicked shut behind me, the new songbook held loosely in one hand, feeling extremely confused and wrong-footed. What had all that been about?

Sighing, I made for the staircase. Perhaps the beginner lectures wouldn’t be too bad? Master Ylbert had always said a strong grounding in the foundations was very important. And as this was a school for adults, not children, ‘beginner’ probably meant something very different than back home. In any case, if it turned out I was too advanced, I’d surely be moved up to the next level, or however it worked.

The lecture room was as spacious and airy as the entrance hall of the College, if only about half the size. Sunlight streamed through the towering stained-glass windows, leaving colourful strips of light along the floors, walls and bookshelves lining the back of the room. It was a truly lovely space. The acoustics were sure to be marvellous, too. I felt my heart lift.

A few students were already settled around the room, though Master Ateia herself had not yet arrived. To my delight I spotted Ataf, the boy I’d spoken to at the door, sitting on a bench on the opposite side of the room. I made an instant beeline for him. He had been in conversation with a tall blond Nord whom I recognised only by sight, but looked up when he spotted me approaching.

“Ah! Kirilee, right? Good to see you!”

“Hello, Ataf,” I smiled. “Lovely to see you too.” I took a seat next to him, perching a little nervously on the padded wooden bench.

The blond man stretched out a large hand. “Hey there! Good to see you again.”

Colouring a little, I took it. “I’m dreadfully sorry, but I’m ashamed to admit I’ve forgotten your name. I know you introduced yourself at the festival, but …”

“It’s Jorn,” he said, without acrimony. “Don’t worry about it. I could tell you weren’t really with us at the time. I heard about Sorex — such a shame. He was a great bloke.”

“Yes,” I said softly. I was glad when Ataf changed the subject. I didn’t much feel like talking about Sorex, not when I finally had something to keep my mind off the whole business. Unfortunately, however, what Ataf seemed keen to discuss was our backgrounds.

“So, what brought you to Solitude, Kirilee? From that accent I take it you didn’t grow up in Skyrim?”

“No, Daggerfall.” The lie no longer fell as clumsily from my lips as it had that first day, when I’d hastily fabricated a backstory for Minette. “And, you know, I wanted to see the world, become a famous bard away from home. But how about you?” I asked quickly, before he could probe any further.

“Daggerfall, eh? Your training must have been _really_ interesting,” he said with a wink, leaving me to stare at him in confusion. “As for me, I’ve lived in Skyrim all my life! My family moved to Falkreath when I was a baby. I grew up with music, though, and Mother and Father always encouraged me in my dream to move here and study to be a professional bard. Father even hired a Master from back in Hammerfell to give me lessons to prepare for my audition. Though mostly he taught me himself. But who taught you? I’ve never heard anyone so young play the lute the way you do!”

To my relief, Master Ateia walked through the door at that very moment, sparing me from having to lie again. Her eyes lingered on me for a moment as she entered, but she otherwise gave no indication of having noticed a new student in her class.

“Good morning, everyone,” she said in a clear, carrying voice. “I trust you’ve all been practicing the work I set you last week?”

A chorus of “Yes, Master Ateia” rang through the room.

“Excellent. Today we’ll be working in G Dorian again. Tilde, which notes make up a G Dorian scale?”

A sturdy girl a few rows in front of me answered, “G, A, uh, B …”

 _B flat,_ I supplied mentally. That girl was at least as old as I was. Did she really not know the notes that made up a Dorian scale?

I was hard put to contain my mounting bewilderment as first the girl stumbled through the rest of the scale, then Master Ateia moved on to teaching the class a simple tune in G Dorian by ear. This was all extremely basic material, such as was taught to children back home in their first year of playing the flute! I supposed it was a properly beginner level class, then, despite the average age of the students — Ataf was easily the youngest, at what I guessed was about seventeen or eighteen.

I furrowed my brow as Master Ateia spoke about the differences in embouchure necessary to keep the flute playing equally in tune in the low and high registers. No, this wouldn’t do; this wouldn’t do at all! I was only a middlingly accomplished flute player, but I was years and miles ahead of what was being taught in this class. I’d had the tune mastered after a single listen, and spent most of the lecture either helping Ataf, who was struggling, or preempting mentally everything Master Ateia was about to say.

I hung back after the lecture, waving Jorn and Ataf on, so I could speak to Master Ateia alone. She wore a strangely guarded look as I approached.

“Yes?” she said, carefully.

“Ah, excuse me, Master Ateia,” I said, as respectfully as I could manage. “I believe I’ve been assigned to the wrong class — I have a substantial musical education already, and I knew everything you taught today. I was hoping I could be moved into a more advanced class, or perhaps given some different work to study …?”

“Sorry, dear,” she said, gathering up her various possessions and not meeting my eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t have time to handle this right now. Speak to Headmaster Viarmo.”

“But he said —”

It was no good. She had already swept from the room in a flurry of emerald lace.

I felt tears beginning to prickle at the corners of my eyes, but firmed my jaw and my resolve. Surely once she heard me play she’d see just how much I didn’t belong in the beginner class. In any case, I decided, I ought to go and speak to Master Six-Fingers, the Dean of Lute, rather than waste my time on what was sure to be another lecture far below my level. If I so outstripped the beginner flutes it would be a hundred times worse on the lute.

Master Six-Fingers, however, wouldn’t hear me out either. She was an old Nord woman, steely-haired and steely-eyed, and my first impressions when I had seen her about the city had been of a gnarled old oak tree, tough and unyielding. Two minutes of conversation were all I needed to confirm the accuracy of this impression. She all but slammed her door in my face when I presented her with my arguments and asked whether I might give her a demonstration so she might assess my skill level, as I was sure I would require private lute lessons to make any progress.

“I don’t give private lessons, girl,” she snapped. “And I don’t go against the Headmaster’s orders. You can be in my beginner class tomorrow, or you can skip it and have nothing. Your choice.” She seemed extremely bad-tempered about something — perhaps she was often hassled by students for lessons.

I trailed morosely down the stairs and back out the front door, ignoring Ataf’s calls to come join them in the common room. _This_ was the famous Bards’ College, acclaimed all over Skyrim? _This_ was the institution renowned for its musical education, into which people the whole province over vied to be accepted? Yes, I’d been a little underwhelmed by the quality of bards I had encountered in my travels so far, but I had assumed that I’d been unlucky, and that the cream of the crop would be found here, in Solitude, at the College.

Outside in the brisk autumn air I slumped into one of the stone benches lining the courtyard, chin in my hands. Oh, Divines … Mother and Father were right. Master Ylbert was right. Even Cook was right! They’d all told me that I wouldn’t find what I was looking for at the Skyrim Bards’ College — but I, full of youthful arrogance, had been sure they were just trying to stifle me and keep me penned. But this was exactly what they’d said. Master Ylbert had warned me that the standards in Skyrim would be lower than our own, and that the Nords didn’t value the same attributes in their bards. That Viarmo was the Headmaster here because his pompous personality wasn’t backed by any real talent, and this was the only College in Tamriel that would tolerate him.

I had been _so sure_ that I would prove them wrong, that it was only their own classist pig-headed prejudice showing. Divines, had I been wrong.

I buried my face in my hands and wept.

* * *

Inigo spent much of the rest of the day working valiantly to cheer me up, and so it was with a renewed sense of hope that I arrived at the College the next morning. Perhaps today would be better. Perhaps yesterday had been an anomaly, and today I’d find that my new classes were actually just as interesting and fulfilling as I’d expected them to be.

It was not better.

In the morning I suffered through an hour of music theory then an hour of aural in a dark, chilly room in the College’s basement. As with the flute lecture the day before, while the lessons were of good quality, and the Dean — a short, short-tempered man named Giraud Gemaine — clearly knew his business, it was all material any music student back in High Rock would have been expected to master before she was old enough to drink watered wine. To my surprise, there weren’t even advanced equivalents of these subjects: the Bards’ College offered only a basic grounding in theory and aural, with any advanced material to be covered in the student’s instrumental lessons as necessary. By the time I was heading to the lecture hall for the day’s beginner lute lesson I’d decided not to bother with either class again.

At least I’d have more time to practice, I thought gloomily. Not that I’d need to, for any of my classes.

My mood was brightened somewhat by seeing Ataf once again waving cheerily at me from inside the hall. He was seated next to Jorn, as well as a young, dark-haired Nord girl I thought I’d perhaps seen around the building once or twice. She introduced herself as Illdi, and I quickly got the impression of someone who was both kind and sweet. I liked her at once.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Kirilee,” she smiled shyly. “I hear you’re the reason the Festival’s been reinstated. It’ll be so good to have it back on again!”

“Careful, Illdi,” Jorn said. “Don’t let Headmaster Viarmo hear you say that. He’s already talking about making it a weekly event.”

“Weekly? Isn’t that … a little excessive?” I said.

Ataf shrugged. “I’m sure the good Headmaster just wants to give the people of the city some joy and levity to look forward to, what with this dreadful war.”

“And it _definitely_ has nothing to do with his own obsessions,” Jorn muttered.

“So um, what’s the Headmaster actually … like?” I said. “He seemed …” I struggled to find a more polite way of saying ‘like a pompous ass’.

“Like a pompous ass?” Jorn said, eliciting a snort from Ataf. “Come now Illdi, don’t look so shocked. Everyone knows the only thing Viarmo cares about is his own ego. Even this damn festival is just a chance for him to show off. Why do you ask, Kirilee?”

“Well, I, er, think I was put in the wrong classes. And I was wondering whether he was the sort who might … reconsider, if I approach him reasonably.”

“What do you mean?” said Illdi. “Did you mess up your audition?”

“I didn’t actually have one.” I explained the whole business with _King Olaf’s Verse_ , and how Viarmo had assigned me my classes. “He said everyone starts at the same point. But, well … no offence meant to any of you, but I’ve been playing the lute since I was seven, and the flute since I was ten. This is all the sort of thing I learned back when I still wore my hair in pigtails.”

Jorn looked puzzled, Ataf frankly astonished. Illdi shook her head. “That’s … highly irregular,” she said. “I’ve never heard of anyone not auditioning before. And it’s not true that everyone always starts in the beginner classes, either.” She nodded to the back row, where a very carefully-dressed woman a few years older than me was sitting with arms folded, and a look of bored disdain on her face. “That’s Aia Arrea. She’s the best vocal student in the College, and she went straight to private lessons with Master Ateia.”

“And our Illdi here was placed right into the intermediate flute class, and has recently graduated to advanced!” Ataf said proudly. Illdi blushed and muttered something about how she really wasn’t actually all that good, but my attention had stayed on Ataf, who was gazing at Illdi with a combination of tenderness and longing. Well, well. I wondered whether she knew?

“Don’t worry about it too much,” Jorn said bracingly to me. “Viarmo can be a bit … weird, sometimes, but I’m sure you’ll be moved to the right classes soon. Certainly once Master Six-Fingers hears you play!”

My eyes tightened. “She already has.” Inigo had already tried to console me with the same thing, but as I had said to him, too; “She would have heard me at the festival. When I played the _Lachrimae_.”

“Oh. Yes.” Jorn’s face fell. “… It was a beautiful piece, though. Nearly made me cry, can you imagine! But, well, I’m sure she’ll come around,” he said doubtfully. Illdi and Ataf added their agreement, though I could tell they were just as confused about the whole business as I was.

Just then Inge Six-Fingers strode into the room, and all conversation immediately cut off. Clearly I wasn’t the only person who saw her as formidable. Even lanky, languorous Jorn quickly faced the front and sat up very straight.

Afterwards I had to concede that her lecture _had_ actually been very interesting, despite none of the material being new to me. It was a theoretical lecture that day: she was teaching the class about the different kinds of lute, as well as the evolution of the instrument and its growing number of courses over the centuries.

“I don’t understand,” Jorn said, sticking his hand into the air. “My lute has fifteen strings. How many courses is that?”

“ _Eight_ , you simpleton.” Master Six-Fingers’ nostrils flared. “Weren’t you listening to anything I just said? Each course consists of two paired strings, with the usual exception of the top course, which only has the one. Now, does anyone know who invented the modern eight-course lute?”

My own hand shot into the air. “The luthier Jacques Finn, in the late Third Era,” I said at once. “He was a Breton. A genius. Though his composition wasn’t anywhere near as inspired as his instrument-making.”

Master Six-Fingers gave me an approving nod. “Correct. The College in fact owns Finn’s prototype eight-course lute. We bought it from the Daggerfall museum half a century or so ago.”

I gasped. I knew it was very rude, but couldn’t help piping up, “May we see it, Master Six-Fingers? Please?”

If her nostrils had flared before, they now gaped. She breathed heavily, her eyes flashing, and I was suddenly amazed at how much a bent, wiry old musician could resemble a sabre cat.

“You cannot,” she snarled. “Some disgusting sneak-thieves broke into the College a few weeks ago and stole it. May their souls be forever damned to Oblivion, and Daedra eat out their hearts.”

I gulped, and subsided into meek silence as Master Six-Fingers spent the next ten minutes describing the lost lute in loving detail, as though by painting an accurate enough word-picture of the thing she could somehow make up for its absence.

This time, after the lecture was over I didn’t bother hanging behind. Master Six-Fingers had made her position clear the previous day. Instead I followed Illdi and Ataf down the stairs, feeling more and more glum with each step. What on Nirn was I going to do? Waste my days attending classes at which I would learn nothing, while hoping Viarmo would eventually reverse his inexplicable decision? Give up, and stop bothering to come to class at all, after everything I’d been through to get here in the first place?

A voice broke into my thoughts, calling, “Kirilee? Can you come here for a moment?”

It was Master Ateia. I waved a quick farewell to Illdi and Ataf, then headed over to where she was leaning strangely furtively out of her office door.

“Yes, Master Ateia?” I felt both puzzled and hopeful. Was she perhaps about to tell me she’d changed her mind?

She waited til she was sure the last few students had trailed past and nobody was about, then slipped me a thin volume of sheet music. I looked at the cover — _Songs of Skyrim_.

“But, Master Ateia, I already have …”

“Have a proper look at it later,” she whispered, then in a normal voice, “Why are you wasting my time again, child? I don’t have time for this! If you want to make yourself _useful_ instead, why don’t you find that damn fool Larina for me, and get her to give back my favourite flute!”

The door closed with a firm snap. I blinked for a moment, completely nonplussed, then found a secluded corner in which to open the folio of sheet music she’d given me. My eyes widened. These were not the simplistic overdone tunes Viarmo had thrust upon me the day before, but rather four pieces — real pieces! — for lute: _Secunda_ , _Ancient Stones_ , _The Bannered Mare_ , (I laughed delightedly) and _Sons of Skyrim_. I hugged the folio to my breast. Finally, something I could sink my teeth into! What a wonderful gift Master Ateia had given me!

But, as I hurried through the city to show Inigo, I couldn’t help but wonder — what in Oblivion was going on here? Why was Pantea Ateia, Dean of Flute and Voice, giving me lute music? Why had she done it so secretively? And why was I being treated so unusually compared to the other students in the first place?

I sensed there were undercurrents here at the College, ones of which I was still painfully unaware. I’d need to pick them up quickly, though. If there was one thing growing up at court had taught me, it was that politics was incredibly dangerous to be caught up in — particularly for one who was not aware of the game.


	14. The Path of an Arrow

I spent the afternoon learning the first of the new works Master Ateia had given me, absorbed in musical bliss for the first time since leaving home. I had nearly forgotten just how much I loved working on a new piece of music. It was akin to the process of building a relationship with a new acquaintance, I’d always thought: the immediate sense of like or dislike, and feeling out of compatibility. The delight of discovering unexpected twists and turns. The almost inevitable frustration of conflict and discord, and subsequent struggle for compromise and adaptation. The gradual growth of familiarity. And finally, the settling into comfortable, companionable coexistence — if the relationship hadn’t by then been abandoned in a fit of anger and resentment, of course.

 _Secunda_ was a pleasure to learn. Simple yet beautiful, it spoke to me of the loneliness of the lesser moon as she followed her sister across the sky; of the melancholy longing she felt while watching mortals crawling across the face of Nirn, whose lives and loves and adventures she could observe, but never experience. As I sat in my room, my fingers plucking the delicate melody from my lute strings, I felt as if I, too, had joined Secunda in her unending roaming across the heavens. The music stilled me. While I played nothing mattered but the tapestry of notes and rhythms I wove: I could forget about the nightmares, about the death of my friend, about the endless trials and disappointments each new day in Skyrim seemed to bring. I was the melody. I was the moon. I was at peace.

By the time I descended the stairs in the evening I felt calm and hopeful once more. Everything would work out for the best. I would just have to give it time, and not give up. After all, I had finally managed to achieve step one of my dream, hadn’t I? Yes, there had been setbacks, but I was on the path I had set out to take.

_And what about Sorex? Was his death just a setback?_

The thought struck me with the force of a warhammer, and I stumbled down the remaining stairs. Thereafter I found it much harder to maintain my newly-won good mood. I joined Inigo in our favourite spot by the fire, feeling deflated and glum once more.

“I take it today was not any better, judging by that long face?” he said.

I shook my head. “I don’t really want to talk about it. But at least Master Ateia gave me some new lute music to learn. And I think I’ve made some friends.”

“Pantea Ateia? Is she not the Dean of Flute and Voice?”

“Yes … I don’t understand it either. There’s definitely something very strange going on. The others told me the way my admission was handled wasn’t at all typical …” I trailed off, having just spotted Fironet drifting into the inn, as though she had only found her way there by accident. “One minute, Inigo, I want to go talk to her.”

“Not to rub her nose in your admission to the College, I hope?”

I gave him an outraged glance over my shoulder. “Of course not! I thought she ought to know that given the standard of the beginner classes she’s definitely good enough to get in, and she should just get on with trying to arrange an audition. Hopefully she remembered to bring a letter of introduction, though; I’d hate to see what kind of tomb Viarmo would set for _her_ to delve into …”

I left Inigo chuckling into his wine, and made my way across the room to where Fironet was choosing a seat.

“Hi, Fironet,” I said with an encouraging smile. “Look, I just wanted to tell you —”

I quailed at the cold, venomous look she turned on me. “You’re in the College?”

“Yes, which is what —”

“ _But you only just got here._ ”

Taken aback, I said, “Fironet, I’ve been here for well over a month, don’t you think …” But she had already turned her back on me and was determinedly examining her fingernails.

I returned to Inigo, looking back uncertainly at Fironet every few seconds. The encounter had left me feeling rather shaken. I’d never exactly counted us as _friends_ , but even so …

“What was that about?” Inigo said as I dropped into my chair.

“I … don’t really know. She, er, seems rather put out that I’m in the College now, I think? I can’t imagine why, though. It’s not as though I’m, I don’t know, _stealing her spot_ or anything. The classes didn’t exactly seem full, and she’s a vocalist, while I’m a lutenist …” I glanced to where Fironet sat in the corner again. She had sat as far away from us as possible, and turned her chair so that her back was to me. I supposed it was a lesson that the petty politicking and rivalries I had experienced at home weren’t confined to Breton society.

“I imagine she might feel threatened by you. Or possibly your success may be making her feel worse about herself.”

“My _success_? What success?” I shot back. “I’m not allowed access to any kind of tuition which might even _accidentally_ let me learn something. The Deans won’t exchange more than two sentences with me, and I don’t think Viarmo even wants me there in the first place! What kind of success is that? Stupid Fironet would probably do _better_ than me if she just got off that cowardly backside of hers and _tried_.”

“This is what I mean,” Inigo said gently, ignoring my outburst. “You are very confident and strong-willed, my friend. You are not afraid to try for fear you might not succeed. Many people are not like this. Miss Fironet is such a one, I think, and so she finds you both inspiring and intimidating. She wishes to be like you, but cannot find the courage.”

I frowned at Inigo, puzzled. That was ridiculous. How could anyone achieve anything if they didn’t try? And if Fironet really wanted to be like me why did she rebuff every offer of help I gave? I opened my mouth to argue further, but was interrupted by Corpulus’ soft voice behind me, saying, “Some supper before you play, Kirilee?”

Hitching on a smile, I swivelled in my chair to face him. He still had the same defeated, empty cast as he had worn since Sorex had died. I didn’t like how much it was starting to fit him. It felt as though the real Corpulus was slowly being devoured by this dreadful monster of grief — I could see him in there still, fighting, but it wasn’t an easy monster to defeat. Impulsively I stood up and hugged him. At first he stiffened in my arms, but after a moment he let out a long sigh and relaxed into the embrace. He had lost a worrying amount of weight.

“Thanks, Kirilee,” he said when we had broken apart. “How was your second day at the College?”

“It was great,” I lied. I couldn’t bear to add to his troubles. “I’ve made a few new friends. And Master Ateia seems very kind.”

“Yes, I’ve always liked her. It’s kind of her to come perform here every so often, given she’s welcome in the court of every jarl in the province. But ah — Kirilee, you said you get a stipend from the College now, right?”

“Yes?”

He glanced at Inigo, who nodded. “Well, we were talking before. You know Sorex’s house, that little one next to the Skeever?” I nodded. “Well … it’s empty now. I really ought to rent it out, but neither Mina nor I really like the idea of a stranger living there. Would — would you be interested? Not that you’re not welcome to stay at the Skeever if you’d rather, of course, but we just thought —”

“Of course I will,” I said. “Inigo and I had already been talking about my finding somewhere more permanent to live.”

“Yes — it was Inigo who suggested we ask you, actually.” He forced a smile. “So, would you like that? Truly? It’s all furnished still, though you might want to replace some of it, given …”

“I would.” I’d had to suppress a tiny shudder at living in a house full of all of Sorex’s old things … but that was easily remedied, and wasn’t what mattered most at present.

“Thanks, truly,” Corpulus said. “I’ve got to get back to the stew, but we can sort out the details later.” He disappeared into the kitchen. I caught Minette’s eye, who was reading at the bar — she cocked her head at me, and when I nodded she beamed and gave me a big thumbs up. She then seemed to realise what she was doing and instantly buried her now very red face in her book. I smiled. Minette never liked to be seen acting ebulliently.

I turned to Inigo. “Didn’t you want to live there? You could afford to move out at least as easily as me.”

“No, my friend. The Viniuses like me, but little Minette is particularly attached to you. It did not seem appropriate. Besides,” — his face split into a wicked grin — “I very much enjoy not having to wash my own dishes.”

* * *

The next morning I moved into Sorex’s house. It didn’t take long — I didn’t have many possessions, and the front door was perhaps only a dozen yards away from the Skeever’s own. ‘House’ may in fact have been a bit of an exaggeration, I thought as I arranged my clothes inside my new wardrobe. It was really more a vertically-arranged apartment. The whole place barely had more floorspace than my room at the Skeever. Still, it was unquestionably lovely, and having my own place felt like a large step towards the independence I yearned for, even if the idea of living in a house which had been recently vacated due to its owner having bled to death less than fifty feet away gave me incredibly mixed feelings.

I sat gingerly on the end of the bed. It was too quiet. Over the weeks I had become used to the low background hum of activity that came with living in an inn. I ran my fingers through Meeko’s fur, seeking comfort in his warm, doggy presence. Meeko had, of course, immediately curled up right in the middle of the bed and gone to sleep — _he_ clearly had no compunctions about sleeping in a dead man’s bed.

“I guess this is home now,” I said out loud; partly to Meeko, but mostly just to break the silence. I gazed around me at the unnaturally clean, empty furniture. Who’d had to collect up all of Sorex’s clothes and other personal items, I wondered? Presumably that task would have fallen to Corpulus — would he have found it heartbreaking, or cathartic? Or perhaps a mixture of both?

Suddenly I couldn’t bear to spend a moment longer in that too-quiet, too-empty house. I whistled to Meeko, grabbed my instruments and bag, and headed to the College. Pantea Ateia had a beginner singing lecture scheduled, and suddenly I was desperate for something, anything, to get me out of my own head.

I never made it to the lecture, however. Master Ateia herself was also on her way to the College, and we ran into each other in the courtyard out the front.

“Good afternoon, Master Ateia,” I called, trying to sound like a student who was both enthusiastic and eager and definitely not dreading sitting through another beginner-level lesson.

She started at the sound of my voice. Then, to my astonishment, after looking quickly around she grabbed me by the arm and drew me into the shadow of the building.

“Kirilee,” she said, speaking very quickly, her voice low. “Listen. You really ought to think about leaving the city for a few days. Take a trip away. Maybe go see Whiterun, it’s lovely at this time of year.”

“Wh-what?” I stammered. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t say any more. I’m sorry. Just … think about it, will you?” She then hurried away.

I stood in place, shivering slightly in the shade and feeling extremely disconcerted. What in Oblivion had all that been about? This whole situation just kept getting stranger and stranger. And yet … I couldn’t deny that Master Ateia’s enigmatic words had sparked a small flicker of relief. Here was a ready-made excuse to get _away_. It felt cowardly, to want to escape the mess of emotions that being in Solitude currently stirred within me … but if one of my _teachers_ had suggested it, then, well, perhaps that absolved me of some of the responsibility? Surely it would do me good, to have some time away to clear my head, just like after my encounter with Sheogorath? With stabbing guilt I thought of Corpulus and Minette. Was I abandoning them, just when they needed me most?

A shake of my head dislodged the thought. It wasn’t _abandoning_ them, not if Pantea Ateia had told me I should. And it would only be for a few days. Perhaps it would even do them some good, to be able to grieve without me and Inigo always in the way.

Not entirely convinced, but heartened nonetheless, I turned my back on the Bards’ College and strode away to find Inigo. I still had that task for Mother Balu in Markarth, which I’d completely forgotten about in the wake of everything which had happened since leaving Riften. If Inigo was amenable it would make for a perfect week-long trip to head to Markarth, deal with Calcelmo, then across to Riften and back home. Surely that would be enough time for Master Ateia’s cryptic warning. And — a thrill of excitement ran through me — Inigo and I both had a bit of coin saved up. Perhaps I could finally buy myself a horse.

* * *

Only one birthday gift I’d ever received could compare to that of my Montaigne lute on my sixteenth birthday, and that was my horse Mist, whom I’d received for my fourteenth. I’d been riding nearly as long as I’d been walking, and for as long as I could remember had begged my parents for a horse of my own — not one of the Duchy’s stock, but one properly mine, whom I’d chosen, and would care for and love forever. After several years spent proving to Father that I was up to the responsibility, including working in the stables every weekend for a year and a half, I’d finally been taken by Father and Gavin the stablemaster to the horse fair in Camlorn, where I’d had my heart stolen by a lithe grey filly from Hammerfell.

Leaving Mist behind had been one of the hardest parts of coming to Skyrim. I’d missed her with a fierce ache; missed being in the saddle, and the warm smell of horse and hay, and the quiet intelligence staring back from behind inch-long lashes. I missed her still — but the ache had certainly been soothed by an afternoon spent in the Solitude stables, and the discovery of a sweet and beautiful palomino pony who had nuzzled at my hair and was just my size. Inigo, too, had found himself a mount; a sturdy piebald gelding he’d chosen on the basis that they both had spots. I only knew the rudiments of choosing good horseflesh, but I thought we’d chosen two very fine animals, and hoped that Gavin would have been proud … and Mist not too jealous.

The next morning dawned clear and breezy, and I felt my heart lift as we rode through the lush pine forest that blanketed most of Haafingar. I tried not to think about Corpulus’ resigned nod when I had told him I’d be away for a week or so. I _especially_ tried not to think about the heartbreak in Minette’s eyes, or her accusing look when I’d asked Corpulus if I could stay in the Skeever that night, rather than in my new house. Corpulus, at least, seemed to have understood, and had promised to have the bed replaced by the time I got back.

I patted my new mare fondly on the neck. “You’re so lovely, Talara. I’m so glad I met you.” She whickered softly at the sound of my voice.

A poorly-stifled snigger came from my left.

“Shut up, Inigo. Talara is a _good_ name,” I said, colouring. “Far better than _Inigo’s Noble Steed_ , anyway.”

“Why is that not a good name? It is descriptive, and accurate. Do you not think so, my noble steed?”

I scowled, but didn’t reply. I had more important concerns: it had been so long since I had last ridden that after just a few hours in the saddle I was already starting to get sore. I stood up in my stirrups, trying to stretch out my legs and buttocks. If it was already this bad it would be a hundred times worse the next morning, though perhaps my healing magic had improved enough that I’d be able to wash it away. My progress with Restoration magic had been painfully slow, unlike my ever-growing command of the Alteration school.

I groaned and arched my back. “Let’s stop at Dragon Bridge for some lunch. I could use a bit of time out of the saddle.”

“Certainly, my friend. Perha—”

Inigo was cut short by an arrow whistling through the air, passing less than a foot in front of our noses.

I was frozen in place, uncomprehending, but Inigo had exploded into action as soon as the arrow had passed us by. He vaulted off his piebald, giving him a slap on the rump and yelling, “Go, Fledge!” then called to me, “Hold on tight, my friend!” and sent Talara fleeing with a slap as well. I clung tightly to the reins and to the saddle with my knees, only reflexes born from years of riding keeping me from falling. After a dozen thudding heartbeats I reined Talara in and turned back around. My heart raced. It had only been perhaps ten seconds since the arrow had shot past, but I had been so startled that my brain was only just now catching up to what was happening.

Inigo had his bow out, and was aiming it into the bushes by the side of the road. He shouted, “Show yourself!” and a moment later a lean, black-and-red clad figure burst from the bushes with a shortbow in hand. Inigo fired, but the small man tumbled gracefully out of the way, and the arrow clattered harmlessly off the cobbles. The man then looked up, directly at me. He was masked and hooded, but our eyes met for an instant, and in that moment I knew: _he had come for me_.

The man dashed up the road towards me, Meeko snapping at his heels. Bellowing, Inigo fired arrow after arrow after him, but the man was quick and agile and moved in a jagged weaving run that made it difficult for Inigo to aim; not to mention that he had to be wary of accidentally hitting Meeko. Finally Inigo dropped his bow and unsheathed his sword. He sprinted after the attacker, yelling, “Kirilee! Go, flee!”

I came back to myself with a start. What was I doing, staring dumbly at someone who was even now trying to kill me? I needed to get out of here! I dug my heels into Talara’s flanks and she sprang into motion. Even as we raced back up the road towards Solitude I was impressed with how well she had been trained — not many horses would stand, unflinching, as an armed attacker ran towards them.

I lay low against Talara’s neck, urging her to go faster, faster. One arrow whistled past my ear. Then suddenly I felt a hot flash of pain in my left arm. I cried out and dropped the reins, reflexively grabbing at the spot with my right hand, then crying out again as my touch sent another burst of pain down my arm. I felt torn cloth under my fingers, and a warm wetness that could only be blood. I’d been shot. It hurt far more than I ever imagined it could have. I felt myself growing woozy.

 _No!_ I shook my head. I needed to focus. With my uninjured arm I snatched up the reins and concentrated on staying in the saddle as we tried to outrun the man’s arrows. My arm throbbed. I felt the blood beginning to soak my sleeve. Was this much blood normal? It hadn’t felt very deep, but then I hadn’t exactly examined it thoroughly. I imagined the next arrow piercing my ribs, or tearing through my belly, with me completely unaware of my oncoming death until it was too late. A sob tore from my throat. It was the hardest thing I had ever done, to keep riding away and not to look back, while expecting at any moment for an arrow to strike true.

After what felt like a very long time, but in reality couldn’t have been more than a minute or two, I heard a shout behind me.

“Kirilee! You can stop now. Come back. It is safe.”

It took another several seconds for the message to reach my brain, and for me to rein Talara from her all-out gallop to a canter, then a trot, then a walk, and finally a stop. I was shaking in the saddle. Talara was breathing heavily. After taking a moment to steady myself I turned around to see Inigo and Meeko standing over the still form of the man in black and red, now only a corpse slumped in the middle of the road.

I clambered off Talara, nearly collapsing when my legs hit the ground. I felt weak and woozy. Of course, I thought dully; the arrow wound. I ought to do something about that. It was rather difficult to think what, though. I blinked heavy eyes. Everything seemed to be turning white, and I heard a high, tinny ringing in my ears. My thoughts moved as slowly as molasses. Perhaps I might just … sit down for a moment …

Suddenly I was caught by a strong arm underneath my armpit, and I heard a voice, as if from a distance, calling, “Kirilee! Kirilee! Can you hear me? Kirilee!”

My mind latched onto the voice, and let it draw me back to consciousness. “Inigo?” I croaked, then drew in a sharp breath as I felt his fingers on my left arm.

“Good. This is only shallow. You are not in any danger. But it is bleeding quite a lot — hold still, I will bind it for you.”

“That’s … good,” I said faintly.

By the lumpiness against my backside I realised I was sitting on the cobblestones. Inigo pressed a waterskin into my hands, and I sipped at it carefully as the world swam back into focus. I let out a little gasp as Inigo wrapped some fabric he had pulled from his pocket around my arm. My skin was beaded with sweat. I could see the freckles clearly against my too-white hands.

“What happened?”

It was a moment before Inigo answered. “… An assassin. Dark Brotherhood.”

“ _What_?” I was suddenly as fully awake as if the skinful of water had been dashed into my face. Had I not already felt completely bloodless I was sure I would have turned even paler.

“Yes. Their armour is very distinctive.”

“And he was after me,” I said, hardly bearing to say the words out loud.

“It … certainly did seem that way.” He sounded very troubled.

“But _why_?”

Inigo shook his head. “I do not know, my friend. I was hoping perhaps you might.”

I tried to run my hands through my hair, but stopped when lifting my left arm tugged at the newly-bound arrow wound. I sucked my breath in sharply. It _really_ hurt.

“Be careful. You do not want to start that bleeding again.”

“No — but wait. Hold on.” I drew to mind one of the exercises Master Lorent had taught me as a child to still my thoughts in preparation for spellcasting. It was very difficult. My mind roiled with emotion — fear, pain, confusion — and it took a great deal of effort to push those thoughts and feelings away, and instead focus on the string of forms necessary to heal. I strained and struggled, feeling a new sheen of sweat breaking out on my forehead, but eventually managed to wrestle the spell from my mind, through my fingers and into my arm. The wound knit instantly. It was an extremely strange and uncomfortable sensation, and I grew woozy again. I slumped against Inigo’s steadying arms.

“You are all right?”

I took in a few deep, steadying breaths, then let Inigo help me up. The world spun a little, but I held on. “Yes. I mean, no. But my wound’s healed, at least. You’re not hurt? Or Meeko?”

“No. We are fine. I am more worried about you. Are you all right?” I knew he wasn’t talking about the arrow wound.

I tried to say ‘yes’ again, but I couldn’t. Instead I turned around and buried my face in Inigo’s chest. I clutched his shirt, holding onto the coarse fabric tightly with both hands, and I began to shake. Inigo’s arms wrapped around me. I shook harder. I shook and I sobbed with great dry heaves, my eyes squeezed so tightly shut they almost hurt. Inigo held me, stroking my hair, until the sobs and the shaking gradually subsided and I felt, if not all right, at least mostly myself again. Finally I broke away from Inigo, who gave me a small, encouraging smile, then felt Meeko push his head under my hand. I gripped the fur on his neck tightly.

“Thank you,” I said thickly to Inigo. I sank carefully to my knees and gave Meeko a hug, then stood back up on wobbly legs to give Talara a few grateful pats as well. “And to you, too. You were brilliant. Both of you. All three of you. Thank you for protecting me.”

“Of course,” Inigo said. “Always.”

My eyes fell at last on the … assassin. I found myself growing frightened again. What if there were more of them? When I voiced the thought, though, Inigo shook his head.

“No. If there were more they would also have joined in the ambush. I think this one was alone. Stay here. I will … deal with him.”

Averting my eyes as Inigo bundled the body into the bushes, I instead busied myself with checking Talara over to make sure she was hale and unharmed. I felt so proud of my new mare. I tried to think about her, and how well she’d done and how swiftly she’d run, instead of the sounds behind me of Inigo … _dealing_ with the corpse.

A soft clopping and a jingling of tack drifted down the road, and soon after Inigo’s piebald reappeared.

“Fledge!” cried Inigo, hurrying over to his horse. “You were so clever, my noble steed! You ran so well! I am very happy you are unhurt.”

“Wait — Fledge? I thought you named him Inigo’s Noble Steed?”

Inigo chuckled, stroking Fledge’s neck. “My friend, for someone who makes her living by reading people you can be very gullible sometimes.”

I smiled weakly. I appreciated Inigo trying to bring some levity to the situation, but I wasn’t really in the mood for jokes.

We led the horses back down the road towards Dragon Bridge — I was still feeling rather wobbly, and didn’t want to risk fainting off Talara’s back. The healing had drained me more than I had thought it would.

“So … you have no idea why that assassin might have been sent?” Inigo said.

“None.” I had been puzzling over that same problem for the past half hour. Or rather, my mind had been darting back and forth between a numb horror that I’d come so close to death, relief that I’d survived, and a kind of terrified confusion that I didn’t have the faintest clue _why_ someone would have hired an assassin to come after me. For it was definitely no robbery, or happenstance — I had learned something of the Dark Brotherhood, growing up, and knew they never killed without a contract. All High Rock nobles needed to know about the shadowy group of assassins, for political assassinations were not uncommon in every echelon of upper High Rock society. My homeland was full to the brim with lords and ladies vying for power and influence, and often the quickest and most efficient way to achieve one’s goals was to _remove_ the person who was standing in the way of them. Come to think of it … 

“Maybe it was someone from home?” I said. “The only noteworthy thing I’ve done since arriving in Skyrim has been joining the College, and I highly doubt anyone would want me dead for _that_. Well, that and facing Sheogorath, but nobody except you knows about what happened. And that old Bosmer, I suppose, but I doubt he’s the sort to hire an assassin.”

“You think someone in High Rock hired the assassins? Why do you think that?”

“Err …” I realised my mistake. Inigo still didn’t know anything about my background, other than that I was nobly born. My stomach squirmed with guilt. Why didn’t I just _tell_ him? He’d more than earned my trust, surely. By my reckoning this was now the third time he’d saved my life, not to mention everything in Dead Men’s Respite.

_Just say it. He already knows you’re noble. ‘I’m the only child and heir of the Duke of Aldcroft, and it might benefit someone back home to have me removed.’ It’s not that hard. Just tell him._

I took the coward’s path.

“… Well, you know High Rock nobles. Somebody always wants someone else assassinated. And it seems more likely than anyone in Skyrim, doesn’t it?”

Inigo made a noncommittal noise.

“But regardless …” I said, looking at my feet. “Regardless, I’m — I’m really glad you were there. And not just because you saved my life. Being around you … if you hadn’t been there, even if I’d survived, I’d have completely fallen to pieces. Well, more than I already did. The same in Dead Men’s Respite. And after Sorex died. You … you don’t just protect me, Inigo. You take care of me. You make me feel safe. I … I don’t know how well I’d be doing without you here by my side. I think you’re probably the best friend I’ve ever had.”

I had been determinedly staring at the cobblestones as I said all this, but now lifted my eyes to Inigo’s. I was startled to see them full of tears.

“Inigo? What’s wrong?”

“Kirilee, you … you say these things. You say you trust me, that I am your true friend. You say these things, even though … even though … even though you know I am a liar,” he finished softly.

“You’re not a liar!”

“But I am. And you know it, too. You … are not the one I shot with that arrow. You know this thing. I have been lying to you from the moment we met. I have been lying to you for my own selfish gain, and using your goodness and kindness to try and mend a hole in myself that cannot be mended. It is not fair for me to use you in this way. It is selfish and cruel, and you deserve better. You should not be calling me the best friend you have ever had. I am nothing better than a broken man who tried to grasp at the sun, when all he deserved was endless darkness.”

I had stopped short and was staring at him, my mouth hanging open. By the time he had finished speaking my own eyes were brimming with tears as well. The stark bleakness in his voice, the utter lack of hope … it tore my heart into little shreds to be blown away by the autumn wind.

“Inigo. Inigo, look at me, please. Inigo, please. Please. Don’t say those things.”

“Why should I not? They are truths, unlike the very foundation of this — this sham of a friendship.”

“No!” I took both his hands in my own. “Yes, I’m not the person you shot. But that _doesn’t matter_. It doesn’t make our friendship a sham, or a lie. This friendship we have is built on the time that _we_ have spent together, and it always has been.”

“But — I have been lying to you —”

I shook my head and held his gaze. “I don’t _care_ , Inigo. I’ve always known the truth, and I’ve understood why it was too painful for you to admit before now.”

Inigo began to cry with great, heartwrenching sobs. He held so tightly to my hands that they hurt, but I ignored the pain, and held tightly back.

“Pretending — letting myself believe it, even if I knew it was not true — I could believe that I — that I could make amends. Earn her forgiveness. But — but I cannot, Kirilee. I cannot change what I have done. She is dead. I can never — I can never undo this wrong. I can never be forgiven.” He hung his head and buried his face in his hands, his whole body heaving with pain.

I spoke as gently as I could. “No. You can’t undo it. But you can take a better path towards the future, which is exactly what you’ve been doing. Yes, you’ve taken lives — but you’ve saved lives. Mine, just then, for a start. Inigo, you’re a different person, now. A _better_ person. You’re making the world better. You’re making _my_ world better. What you did in the past doesn’t change that. Me not being the person you shot doesn’t change that. You don’t need anyone’s forgiveness except your own. Please, Inigo. Forgive my friend. He matters to me very much. I want him to be happy. Please. Let him be happy.”

Inigo pulled me in close, still shaking. He was silent for several long moments. Then a whisper, so soft I could barely hear it:

“I will try.”


	15. City of Stone

We reached Markarth the afternoon of the following day, and I couldn’t help letting out an audible gasp as we approached. It was truly magnificent. The afternoon sunlight hit the towering walls, making them shine as though they had been dipped in the city’s famous silver. The city itself was recessed into a mountain, and had been built by the now-extinct Dwemer, the largest construction of theirs ever been found aboveground. It was an architectural marvel, apparently. Nobody had been able to figure out how they’d done it.

“This is incredible,” I said to Inigo as we walked towards the huge bronze gates after stabling our horses. “I’ve never been particularly interested in the Dwemer, but it will be fascinating to see a city they built. And without even having to delve underground!”

Inigo frowned, and his tail twitched. He had more or less returned to his normal self, though he had been perhaps a little more subdued than usual for the rest of the journey. I had been rather quiet myself. The attack had shaken me very badly.

“I do not know, Kirilee. This place already makes me feel … uneasy. Can you not feel it? The tension here, it is so thick I could cut it, spread jam on it and eat it for my breakfast.”

“Well, whatever’s going on, we don’t have to get involved,” I said lightly. “We’re only planning on being here long enough to solve whatever’s going on with Calcelmo, and then we can head straight off. We can probably leave first thing tomorrow.” Inigo didn’t answer and instead gestured for me to open the sally-port in the great bronze gates, as his arms were full with our packs.

Inside the walls, Markarth was even more breathtaking than from the outside. The city seemed to have been constructed to make the vista from its entry point as striking as possible. It looked to have been built something like a bowl, or maybe a spiral — I couldn’t work out the exact shape — but with several descending levels; from those built high into the side of the surrounding mountains down to a deep, recessed area, into which a noisy waterfall crashed. Everything was intricately carved stone and bronze. To me the city looked like a place fit for the Divines themselves.

“Wow,” I breathed, looking around and drinking in the spectacle. Inigo, however, had already made a beeline for the nearest market stall, clearly eager to get this out of the way as quickly as possible. I couldn’t understand why he was in such a hurry. This city was wonderful. I hurried after him, to where he was in conversation with a rather careworn Redguard woman running a jewellery stall. My eyes lingered on her wares as Inigo questioned her — her pieces were beautiful indeed.

“Oh, yes, the court wizard. He’ll be up in the Keep,” said the jeweller. She nodded behind her, to the part of the city cut into the towering mountains surrounding the basin. “Straight up the path that way — but if you take the path behind the inn instead you’ll get the best views of the city. Travellers always seem to be interested in the fancy carvings and stonework. Oh, but that reminds me — I’ve actually got something here for Calcelmo. Would you mind taking it to him? I can’t leave the stall right now.”

We nodded our assent, and she handed me a beautifully engraved gold ring, heavy in my hand.

“Your jewellery is wonderful, by the way,” I said as we turned to leave. “I’d feel privileged to own some, one day.” Her answering smile was like the sun.

The path behind the inn was indeed spectacular. The inn had been built into the northern side of a sort of central peak jutting up in the middle of the city, which on the southern side fell into a deep crevasse. At the bottom we could see a pool of dark water, into which several long ribbonlike waterfalls tumbled, as well as a deep, dark wound in the mountainside that looked to be the entrance of the silver mine that kept Markarth so wealthy. To the west and north the city rose instead of falling, dwellings and businesses and even temples cut directly into the steely grey rock. What amazed me, however, was how much life there was everywhere. Bent juniper trees and thick mosses clung to the rockfaces, and around every corner a little shock of vegetation grew from a crack in the stone or a bowl of soil. The city was a marvel of contrasts. Inigo agreed.

“There is a constant war between manufactured geometry and the natural world in Markarth,” he said. “Nature will win though. She always does in the end.”

I was out of breath by the time we had climbed up to the entrance of Understone Keep, and my thighs ached from the dozens and dozens of stairs.

“Everyone — must be — incredibly fit, here,” I panted to Inigo.

“And nimble.” Annoyingly, the climb barely seemed to have affected him or Meeko at all. “This town seems to have been designed by a suicidal madman. One little slip and you would tumble to your death.”

“At least the view would be nice on the way down, though,” I said, leaning onto my legs and sucking in deep gulps of air. “Look at that!” I had been wrong — the city hadn’t been designed to be best viewed from the entrance. The most magnificent vantage point was definitely here, in front of the Keep. Now, in the afternoon sun, Markarth looked like a deep stone bowl brimming with liquid gold.

“It is indeed spectacular. But still. Let us get moving. I am eager to be gone from this place, as beautiful as it may seem.”

The Keep guards happily pointed us towards Calcelmo, Markarth’s court wizard. He was currently working in a large natural cavern to the left of the passageway to the Keep, which housed the entrance to the sprawling Dwemer ruins above which Markarth perched — the City Below the City, or so they said.

“Mad about Dwemer,” the guard idly commented as he escorted us through the dark tunnel connecting the Keep proper to the cavern. “Been working on excavating those old ruins. Better they were left well alone, if you ask me. All kinds of unnatural things under the earth. There he is,” he said, pointing. “Mind yourselves with him. Crotchety old bastard, that elf.” We thanked him, and he saluted, then returned to his post.

I stopped for a moment to gawk before approaching the tall, hooded Altmer. The cavern was natural, but had been enhanced, built upon, by the Dwemer. Here no plantlife encroached, and no wind and rain weathered away the stone, so we could see for the first time Dwemer architecture in all its stark majesty. It took my breath away. Stone and bronze, woven together in ways that were rigid and severe, yet at the same time somehow completely natural-looking; as though they were the shapes the stone had always been meant to take. I could understand now why Dwemer engineering and architecture drove so many to obsession. There was an alien, unknowable, un-understandable perfection here that I could easily imagine ensnaring the right kind of mind. It made me feel uncomfortable, like I didn’t belong.

Eventually, at a nudge from Inigo, I broke from my reverie and stumbled through the gloom to where the elf — Calcelmo — was thumbing through a book. He was reasonably old, I thought, though given his race I had no idea what that meant in actual years. His face was clever, his brow furrowed in concentration, and though he was sitting down I thought he was tall, even by Altmer standards. I cleared my throat.

“Um. Calcelmo?”

His eyes flicked up from his book for a second, then returned. “What are you doing here?” he asked, without interest. “The excavation site is closed. I don’t need any more workers or guards.”

I balked, a little taken aback. “I was looking for you, actually. I was sent —”

“I told you, I’m not hiring any more guards!” he said waspishly. “Why do you people always bother me when I’m trying to finish my research?” He closed his book. He seemed to be getting very worked up.

“I —”

“You idiot! Do you even know who I _am_?” He didn’t pause for a response. “The most recognised scholar on the Dwemer in all of Tamriel, and you people _keep bothering me_!” His raised voice rang in the hollow stone cavern, and another Altmer working nearby had stopped his work to stare, open-mouthed. Inigo and I were speechless. Calcelmo blinked for a moment at my startled face, then seemed to come to his senses.

“I … I’m sorry. I … I got too excited.” That was certainly one way of putting it, I thought. “I’m in the middle of some very … stressful work, and I shouldn’t have yelled. How can I help you?”

Mara’s mercy, no wonder this man needed help managing his love life.

“Um. Firstly, I have this ring for you —”

“Oh, that’s right,” he said, taking it from my outstretched hand. “I keep forgetting to pick that up. Poor Kerah, such a patient woman.” He stared at the ring, his face unreadable, then dropped it into a pocket. “Was that all?”

“No. I was actually sent here by Mara.”

The change that overcame him was incredible. Suddenly he lost all acidity, all irritability; even his age seemed to fall from him in an instant, and he reminded me of nothing more than a heartsick young boy, lost and confused.

“I was beginning to lose faith that any help would come,” he said softly. “Eh … You see … Well, do you know Faleen?” The way he said the name was like a caress.

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Well, suffice it to say that she is resplendent, but not without resolve. Striking, in all senses. She is the Jarl’s steward. And … my wife.” He deflated like a child’s punctured balloon. “Though that last … only by technicality.” Fishing the ring back out of his pocket, he said hollowly, “This is her wedding-band. She … she gave it back to me. I thought perhaps, if I had it restored, she might …”

He sighed heavily, and turned his golden eyes on me. “The truth is, I have no idea what happened. I don’t know what I did wrong, or why she left, or how I could mend things between us. I love her. I would do anything to have her back. But … well. She is as volatile as a sabre cat. One wrong word, and she will turn on a man so quickly …” The ring turned over and over in his fingers. “I am afraid of making things worse. Please. Help me. I don’t know what to do.”

My heart went out to this poor, crotchety old man, looking so lost and alone. I had a pretty shrewd guess what had driven his wife away, however. I promised that I would do my best, and Inigo and I headed back out into the autumn sunshine and took a seat on the steps, marvelling again at the view.

“Not exactly what you were expecting, it seems,” Inigo said.

I laughed. “No. Definitely not. Though neither was Fastred, I suppose.” I scratched the healed-up wound on my arm, thinking. “This one’s a bit more complicated, I think. New love? That’s simple. Old love, gone bad? That’s … much harder. I don’t really know if I’m qualified to solve this, actually.”

“Bah. Mara sent you here, so, you are qualified. It is as simple as that. Do you have any ideas?”

“Well … I suppose the most logical place to start would be with Faleen. Mind you, I’m pretty sure I know what she’s going to say.” Inigo nodded slowly, his face grim.

* * *

My guess was spot on.

“Calcelmo?” Faleen said irritably. “Yeah, he’s my husband. Officially, at least. Though can’t say it ever really felt that way, not in ten years of marriage. That man only has room in his heart for one love. And that’s a love thousands of years dead.” She vented her feelings by aiming a kick at a scurrying cockroach.

“He, ah, seems to really care for you …” I ventured timidly.

“Bah,” Faleen spat. “Words are cheap. Sure, he _says_ he loves me, but when day in, day out for over a decade all I see is how much time he puts into his work, and never into me? What does that tell you? You’re still young, girl,” she said, fixing me with a hard gaze. “You’ll learn. Love isn’t a word. It’s an action. If someone tells you they love you, but don’t show you? That isn’t love. That’s just habit.” Then she turned on her heel and marched off, her footsteps echoing in the stone corridor.

I turned to Inigo. “Well. That could be a problem.”

* * *

Sunset found us sitting down near the mine, dangling our feet above the water and watching the miners trailing out of the great gaping opening in the rockface for the end of their workday. None of them looked at all happy.

“Got any bright ideas?” I said. Inigo shook his head. I lay down, lacing my fingers behind my head, and watching the clouds drifting slowly across the peach-coloured sky.

“What we need,” I mused, “is a way for Calcelmo to _show_ Faleen that he cares, and that he’s willing to take time for her.” Calcelmo had been shocked to hear the reason Faleen had separated from him. It hadn’t even crossed his mind that he might be putting too much of himself into his work rather than his marriage — though, encouragingly, he had readily agreed that he would do his best to change, if only Faleen would give him another chance. 

“So we need him to make some kind of romantic gesture, yes?” Inigo said. “Something to show his love?”

“Yes … and no. Not just his love. Something that shows he cares about _her_ interests, and has taken both the time to really think about what matters to her, and the effort to make it happen.” He had seemed genuinely confused that Faleen had not understood that the various Dwemer trinkets with which he showered her were expressions of his love.

Inigo snorted. “But he could barely even tell us what her interests were! Except for poetry. He said she had many books of romantic poems that she would like to read.”

“I know. Even if they get back together … they’ll have a long road ahead of them to making their marriage work. But that’s not our job. We’re just here to give them the spark. Hmm … but poetry. That could work. Yes!” I sat up, excited, startling Meeko who had laid his head across my belly. “What if he were to write her a poem? That would be something he’s put time and thought into; something that _she_ likes but he couldn’t give two septims about, and which lets him show the depth of his feelings for her. It’s perfect.”

Calcelmo did not seem to think so. He blanched at the suggestion, his normally golden skin turning a very sickly-looking yellow.

“A … a _poem_? No. That’s impossible. I’m … I’m no poet. I don’t know the proper forms! I’ve never been able to get a handle of the right structure!”

Inigo’s whiskers twitched. “What do you mean, proper forms and structure? Do you not just write pretty words to say how you feel?”

“Auri-el, no! A poem is … is as carefully constructed as a house. It must be done _properly_ , or it is no work of art at all! Have you read none of the great Altmer poets? Poetry is not about passion, or feelings. It is about a beautiful economy of form! About finding the perfect combination of few words to paint vivid, striking imagery! No, I could not write a poem. No.”

I cocked my head. “Does Faleen like Altmer poetry?”

“Ah, well … no, not really,” he admitted. “She likes the Romantic movement, from Cyrodiil, and the poetry of Elsweyr.”

“And are _they_ — what was it — carefully constructed as a house?”

“… No. But even so, I could not — I do not know how — I would just make it worse!”

“What if you had someone to teach you? Help you write your poem properly?” Inigo suggested. “Would that help?”

Calcelmo blinked at him owlishly. “Well — perhaps — I suppose it might. Do you mean — one of you two?”

“Divines, no,” I said. “I’ve never written anything worth the paper it was written on, and … you really don’t want to hear Inigo’s poetry. Trust me on this.”

“But then … who?”

“Can you not think of anyone?” Inigo asked.

“Er … perhaps … yes. There is — there is one man.” He visibly steeled himself, and I heard him mutter ‘for Faleen’ under his breath. “Yngvar. A friend of Faleen’s, actually — he apparently trained at the Bards’ College, in Solitude. Though he, er, doesn’t like me very much,” he mumbled, a little abashed.

“I cannot imagine why,” Inigo muttered, but so low that only I could hear it.

* * *

Calcelmo wasn’t exaggerating. Yngvar’s face darkened so much at mention of the old mer’s name that I was sure I knew exactly who Faleen came to when she needed to drink and vent.

“Please,” I said. “He wants to do better. He really does. He’s _trying_. He doesn’t want to lose her.”

“Maybe he deserves to lose her.” Yngvar stared at me coldly, arms crossed. “That old bastard’s hurt Faleen enough. Where’s the proof anything’s different this time?”

“He’s going to write her a poem. He wants you to teach him how.”

Yngvar blinked. This was clearly not the answer he’d expected.

“A … a _poem_? _Really_?”

“Really and truly. Please,” I repeated. “Just help him with the poem. Faleen can still say no — at least give him a chance to change. I don’t think I would have been sent here if there weren’t a chance for them to be happy. Please.”

He gave me a long, considering look. “Fine. On one condition,” he said, holding up a finger as I smiled at him gratefully. “You let me have a go on that lute of yours. I’ve never even _seen_ a Montaigne before.”

“Deal,” I said, and we shook hands.

That taken care of, Inigo and I headed at last to the inn. It had been a long day, and we felt we’d earned a few drinks — which, as it turned out, the innkeeper was happy to provide on the house.

“Kirilee?” he said, after I’d introduced myself. “You’re that new bard up in Solitude, right? I’ve been hearing about you for weeks, patrons been talking my ear off asking when I’ll get you in. No, no, don’t bother with that,” he said, waving away the letter of recommendation I had offered. “No need for that at all. If you’ll play tonight I’ll pay you … let’s say three hundred septims, and you can have room and board covered for you and your friend. And your dog, I guess. Just give me an hour to send a runner-boy to the crier.”

I flushed a bright crimson, and worked hard to conceal my delight. A warm, sparkling happiness rose within me, like a draught of the fancy bubbled wine Father had once let me try. I suddenly felt as though all my trials in Skyrim had been worth it just to hear those words. For the first time in my life I hadn’t been recognised because of my name, but rather the other way round. This was what I had always wanted. It was the most wonderful feeling in the world. I almost wanted to hug the hard-faced innkeeper.

Instead, I said, “Thank you, good sir. That will do very well indeed.”

* * *

“You look terrible,” Inigo greeted me as I slouched into the Silver-Blood Inn’s common room the next morning.

“What kind of idiot thinks _stone beds_ are a good idea?” I tried to run my fingers through my hair, and growled when they got stuck. My hair was still a long gingery mess; I had tossed and turned all night and had woken up in such a bad mood I’d thrown my comb across the room rather than attempt to fix all the knots. “I can’t believe Corpulus was actually telling the truth. No wonder the Dwemer disappeared. They probably lost all will to live from having chronically bad backs and not enough sleep.” Not that I would have managed much sleep anyway, I admitted to myself. My nightmares had been particularly bad, the masked assassin wending through my already-frightening usual stock of dream-scenes.

Inigo lowered his voice. “I — _borrowed_ — some furs from the room next to mine.” He winked. “My bed was much more comfortable after that.”

“And you didn’t think to bring me any?”

“It was very late in the night,” he said airily. “I thought you must be sleeping soundly, and I did not want to wake you. But I should have remembered, you have so little padding that the beds would be extra hard for you.” He poked me in the ribs with his spoon. I scowled, and dug into my own porridge. Stupid cat.

“Kirilee …” he said, after we had been eating in silence for a few minutes.

“What?”

“Do you think … Are we doing the right thing?”

“What do you mean?”

He stared into his porridge. “Calcelmo and Faleen. I am wondering, is it a good thing to try and bring them back together? They do not seem to be very well matched. Will we just be bringing more unhappiness to them, in doing this thing?”

“Oh,” I said, a little taken aback.

“You have not wondered this yourself?”

“Well … yes, a little,” I admitted. “But I mean … we were sent to do this by Mara Herself. Surely if a literal Divine intervenes then that’s a reasonably strong hint the relationship has a good chance of working out? I doubt it’s a particularly common occurrence.” I shrugged. “We’re only here to see the bad part. Calcelmo and Faleen were married for ten years before this. I’m sure there’s a lot of good that was there before that we just can’t see now. My parents sometimes fight for weeks at a time, but they still love each other, and always manage to let their love overcome their differences. We just have to hope that that’s the case here, too.”

“So, love conquers all, then?”

I smiled. “Pretty much. Come on,” I said, standing up and dislodging Meeko’s head from my lap. “Let’s go. Calcelmo and Yngvar should have that poem ready by now, and I could definitely use a good laugh to distract me from my sore back.”

* * *

I didn’t laugh.

“This … this is beautiful, Calcelmo,” I said softly. The old mer had been regarding me anxiously as I read, and his face lit up at my praise. His relief was palpable.

“It is,” Inigo agreed. “You have missed your calling, I think. Poetry like this, the wealthy ladies of Cyrodiil would be falling over themselves to read.”

Calcelmo tried and failed not to look inordinately pleased with himself. “Thank you, my friends. Though in truth it’s all thanks to Yngvar, of course,” he said, turning to smile at the man. Yngvar nodded his acceptance. Both of them looked exhausted — apparently they had stayed up the whole night working on the poem.

“Old codger’s got a gift for words. I’ll admit, I thought this was a Gods-damned terrible idea at first. But what I’ve heard tonight’s convinced me they might actually have a shot. Good luck, old man,” he said, slapping Calcelmo on the back. “I’m off to get some sleep.”

Calcelmo blinked after him. “Far less an uncouth ruffian than I thought, I must confess.” He looked down at his poem uncertainly. “But still …” He looked back up, eyes moving from Inigo to me, pleading. “… Would you take it to her? Please? I … I’m afraid …”

“No,” I said. “Remember what Faleen said? Love is action. You need to do this yourself.”

“Very … very well, then. If you are sure.” He took a moment to compose himself, taking a few deep breaths, then firmed both his back and his resolve. One hand slipped into his pocket then withdrew, and he nodded to us, his lined face set. We followed him, his back ramrod-straight, through the low stone corridor and into the Dwemer-built Keep; past guards who offered Calcelmo respectful nods, and to the elevated alcove the Jarl had chosen as his throne-room. Faleen stood at the entrance, and her bored expression turned to one of cold indifference as she saw Calcelmo approaching — then slight surprise, when she spotted us following behind. As in Ivarstead we hung back, though close enough to eavesdrop, of course. I noticed the guards were looking away so determinedly that they were definitely eavesdropping, too.

“I told you not to bother me, Calcelmo.” Faleen’s voice was hard.

“Please, Faleen,” Calcelmo said. “I’m so sorry. I understand now what a deficient husband I have been. I have been negligent and dismissive of your needs, too concerned with the importance of my work to consider how important you are to me, too.” Hands shaking, he handed her the scroll of parchment onto which he had carefully transcribed the final version of his poem. His calligraphy was astonishingly beautiful. “I … I wrote this poem for you. Please, Faleen. I want to make things right. I will do better, if you can see it in your heart to give me another chance.”

Faleen looked thunderstruck. “A _poem_? _You_ wrote a _poem_?” I was surprised to see her hands were trembling too as she unfurled the scroll. Calcelmo was wringing his own hands, clearly nervous beyond reason: his eyes were fixed on Faleen’s face, terrified and longing and hopeful. As Faleen read, her face moved gradually from stunned disbelief to amazement, and finally to a deep, dark blush. Her eyes met Calcelmo’s.

“… Calcelmo. Shade of my heart. You really wrote this? You did this … for me?” Her voice was almost tender.

“I did, my love. Yngvar helped me. I … I had never written a poem before, as you know.”

Faleen’s mouth fell open. “You convinced _Yngvar_ to _help you_?”

“Those two did, actually,” he said, pointing at us.

Faleen strode down the steps and faced us, arms crossed. “You spoke to me yesterday, too. Why did you do this?”

“Lady Mara wanted me to,” I replied simply.

I had thought Faleen could not have looked any more surprised after seeing her reaction to the revelation that Yngvar had helped her maybe-not-yet-ex-husband write poetry. I was wrong. Faleen’s eyebrows climbed so high up her forehead that I thought they were going to disappear into her hairline, and she was struck completely dumb, just mouthing wordlessly.

I smiled encouragingly. “He really does want to change, I think.”

She shook her head and ran fingers through her tightly-curling hair. “I can see that. This is already far larger a change than I ever would have expected.” Her eyes moved uncertainly back to Calcelmo, who had approached, and was holding out his right hand balled into a fist. He opened his fingers. It was Faleen’s wedding ring.

“Please, Faleen,” he said again, his golden eyes reflecting the gleaming gold band in the torchlight.

Hesitatingly, tentatively, she stretched out a hand.

She took it.

* * *

My heart was full of nothing but love as we wended our way down the stone pathways from the Keep. The look on Calcelmo’s face as Faleen had slipped the ring onto her finger — the tenderness in her eyes as she had kissed him — these images of hope and love banished from me the cloying darkness and sticky fear that had been a low pulse in my belly ever since the assassin’s attack. Being reminded that there was still love in the world, ripe for kindling … it helped me believe again that everything would, eventually, be all right.

Instead of leaving the city we were on our way back to the Silver-Blood Inn for a spot of relaxation, then a visit to the Temple of Dibella in the afternoon; for after Faleen and Calcelmo had finished kissing each other silly, Faleen had asked whether I might play for the Jarl that evening. She had heard of my skill from some of the inn’s patrons of the previous night, and the Jarl had been very keen for a private performance. I could understand why. The inn’s resident bard was a Skald, a kind of Nord warrior-poet, while apparently Markarth’s Jarl had a taste for the more … sophisticated things in life. Inigo clearly chafed at our spending another day in Markarth, but had admitted it _was_ an important enough reason to delay our departure.

“Look, Inigo,” I said, pointing down the path. “Aren’t those the robes of a Vigilant of Stendarr?”

“You are right. I wonder what he is doing so far from the Hall?”

Myself, I was more curious whether this one was quite as dour as the one we had met on our way to Langley’s house. So I strode up to the tall, weathered man and introduced myself in a bright voice. I was interested to note that he didn’t come across so much dour as … weary. He seemed exhausted, and very sad.

“Good day, Mister Vigilant,” Inigo said, after the Vigilant had finished shaking my hand.

“Just Tyranus, please.”

“Very well, Mister Tyranus. What brings you to Markarth, so far away from your home?”

Tyranus started. “Wait — you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?” I said.

“The Hall — it’s gone. Those of us who survived the attack no longer have anywhere to call home.”

“What!” Inigo gasped. “What happened?”

“Vampires,” Tyranus replied in a hollow voice. “They swooped down in the dead of night, perhaps a fortnight ago. Every soul who was in the Hall was slaughtered. They … they burned it to the ground around my brothers’ and sisters’ ears. There are only a handful of us left. Those of us who were out on missions that awful, awful night.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, reaching out a hand and laying it on his limply hanging arm. “I can’t imagine the pain you must be going through.”

“Thank you,” he said softly.

“I am very sorry for your loss, my friend,” Inigo said, then; “… Wait. A fortnight ago?” Tyranus nodded. “That was very near when we were there, Kirilee! Perhaps the very same day! If only we could have helped! We might have been able to save some of them …”

I tried to give Inigo a _shut up now_ look — by the expression on Tyranus’ face this wasn’t helping at all. Never mind the fact that if we _had_ been there, we, too, would probably be dead by now … or worse.

“So, what brings you to Markarth then?” I said loudly, to interrupt Inigo’s unpleasant musings.

Vigilant Tyranus nodded towards a nearby door. “I’m here to investigate this house. There have been reports of disturbances — odd noises — we think it might have been used for Daedra worship.”

“You’re still hunting Daedra? Just a fortnight after most of your order was killed?” I was flabbergasted.

He gave me a stern look. “Of course. Would you have the rest of us give up? It’s times like these when the Vigil is most important. We cannot allow the darkness to triumph.”

“Of course,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing. But now, if you’ll excuse me.” He nodded towards the door again.

Inigo shot me a pointed, meaningful glance. I gritted my teeth. Tyranus had said that it ‘had’ been used for Daedra worship, right? It would surely be perfectly safe now, or the town guard would have already battered down the door. And the poor man was all alone.

“Would you like us to come with you?”

* * *

_\---Frostfall 7th, 4E 201---_

_must write must write must hold on to I am me my mind is my own NO NO NO I WONT I am kirilee dobraine born aldcroft mother maegwyn father perival dog meeko horse talara friend inigo i am me i am me no i wont i wont MY MIND IS MY OWN keep writing hold on keep writing keep writing_

_a vigilant tyranus an empty house daedra worship wanted help we must help we can help inside everything WRONG I was so scared wanted to go inigo said no we help B A L deeper colder so wrong so M O L A G scared locked door tyranus feels it too he BAL BAL BAL runs we run run meeko run!!! the voice His voice no no it hurts run ingo!! but things flying everything dark M O L A G the door is locked we are TRAPPED TRAPPED TYRANUS NO NO HIS VOICE NO IT HURTS NO TYRANUS PLEASE help me helpme helphelp BALBALBAL he fell meeko ran NO MEEKO NOT THAT WAY i chased everything MOLAG wrong so wrong meeko please come back NO MEEKO DONT TOUCH THAT i threw him away and then trapped caged caught and his voice MOLAG BAL HIS VOICE MOLAG BALMOLAG BAL MOLAG BAL BAL BAL NO IT HURTS SO MUCH STOP STOP PLEASE NO NO I DONT WANT I DONT helpme helpmehelpmehelpinigohelpmeeko oh help me dibella save me mara guide me kynareth please please please NO DAEDRA I RENOUNCE THEE AND THY HOLD who said that it wasnt me but i was free and we ran ran ran everything still door open I fell and it went black_

_now i am here and his voice HIS VOICE it is there and it HURTS NO NO NO I WONT I WONT I AM NOT YOURS I AM MINE MY MIND IS MY OWN I AM KIRILEE I AM KIRILEE I AM KIRILEE I AM KIRILEE I AM KIRILEE I AM KIRILEE I AM KIRILEE_ [this continues for three pages]

***

 _cant sleep must sleep but HE is there his voice his voice his voice mad gods laugh olafs empty eyes arrows everywhere i am caged meeko dies inigo dies mother dies father dies sorex corpulus minette they die againanadagainandagain i wake screaming but HIS VOICE is always there i cannot escape always always NO NO NO I WONT I WONT I AM MINE I AM KIRILEE must hold on must hold on must hold on must hold on_ [illegible scrawling]

***

 _please help me please guide me dibella mara kynareth akatosh arkay julianos stendarr zenithar please help me please guide me dibella mara kynareth akatosh arkay julianos stendarr zenithar please help me please guide me dibella mara kynareth akatosh julianos stendarr zenithar please_ [this continues for two pages]

***

_the stone is so cold i want to be home home home where is home do i have a home home is music home is meeko home is inigo and mother and father and corpulus and minette i love them remember them think of them no no no hold on i am me i must hold i must keep me NO YOU CANNOT HAVE ME NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO I AM ME I AM MINE I AM KIRILEE_

***

_please no make it stop make the voice stop it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts i cant stop it my mind is sharp and aching and exploding in hurt but I must hold it i must stop it please help me anyone please please make it stop meeko please i cant i cant i cant_

***

_guillame se va chaufer nightingales eyes the bannered mare recordans de mia signora enchanter il est bel et bon samsons tale i am the one baur was tragt im sacke sons of skyrim rise once we were canon fall of the magister allegrez moy maker alionsina sera was never libera me chanson secunda_

***

_cdefgabc gabcdef#g def#gabc#d abc#def#g#a ef#g#abc#d#e bc#d#ef#g#a#b f#g#a#bc#d#e#f# c#d#e#f#g#a#b#c# cbdbebfbgbabbbcb gbabbbcbdbebfgb dbebfgbabbbcdb abbbcdbebfgab ebfgabbbcdeb bbcdebfgabb fgabbcdef_

***

_i cant stop him i cant i cant oh please help me divines save me anyone please help me it hurts so much it hurts too much i cant hold on much longer please please please please please please divines please_

***

[illegible scrawling]


	16. Interventions

I opened my eyes.

At first I thought I was still dreaming, as all I saw was a blinding whiteness. Once my eyes had had a few seconds to adjust, however, I realised I was merely in a gently lit room, but my eyes had become used to darkness from my long … convalescence. In truth, I hadn’t expected to wake at all.

It took several long seconds for me to come fully aware and awake. I felt as raw as a newborn babe. My eyes moved slowly around the room as I lay perfectly still, cataloguing my surroundings: I was on a stone bed, though one heavily cushioned with furs and blankets, which had been strewn around me in disarray. Meeko lay half-on, half-off the bed, and seemed to be asleep. Next to me slumped Inigo in an uncomfortable-looking stone chair, also fast asleep. They were safe. Thank the Divines.

I suddenly noticed how dry my throat was, and how hollowed and empty my stomach. “Inigo?” I croaked, then started to cough.

Both Inigo and Meeko immediately startled awake. Inigo looked very frightened — but then his eyes fell on me and he relaxed into a relieved smile. His eyes were shadowed by dark circles, and his face was drawn and pinched. He threw himself off the chair and onto the ground beside me, taking my limp hand in both of his.

“Kirilee. You are awake. Thank the Moons.”

“Water. Please.”

Inigo hurried back to the stone table by the wall, nearly treading on his own tail in his haste. The floor was littered with broken quills which crunched under his feet. He poured some water from a heavy bronze jug into a matching tumbler and pressed it into my hands. I emptied it in one long swallow, then held it out to be refilled. As I did I noticed my fingers were heavily stained with ink.

“How long …?”

“Two days, my friend. It is the morning of the tenth. Are you well?” he said anxiously.

I smiled a small but genuine smile. “I am. Better than I have been in weeks.”

“What … what happened? After we escaped the house you were thrashing and moaning … shaking … you — you —” He shook his head.

“What?”

“I … would rather not speak of it. It was as though you were having a very long and painful fit. The only thing you seemed aware of was your journal — you would scrabble for it and write furiously for a time, in between …” He shook his head again. “I had to work very hard to convince Mister Kleppr that you had not been possessed and to let you recover here in the inn.” I looked into his haunted eyes. What had I done, in my madness?

“But … how did you know I wasn’t possessed?”

“I just knew. I know you. I know your strength. I knew I would not lose you to … Him.”

“I very nearly was lost,” I said softly. “He … He had me, Inigo. He was in my head, inside my very _soul_ … The whole thing was this awful haze of pain and terror I thought I’d never escape. It … it was like my mind was being repeatedly violated. Torn to shreds. Mauled and savaged and … molested.” Inigo’s hand tightened compulsively on my own. “It — it took every ounce of what I had to hold onto myself and stop _Him_ from taking me … from chewing me up and then spitting me out again, all broken and empty.”

“Kirilee …” His voice was agonised, his grasp painful.

“No, Inigo. It’s okay. I’m okay.” I smiled. It was difficult, but only because I felt so physically weak. “I … don’t know what happened. I wasn’t winning. Every hour I could feel myself slipping a little bit further away. I was right on the cusp of giving in so the pain would finally stop, when … It was like a harsh, bright white light suddenly tore into my mind. It hurt, a lot, but in a sort of clean way. It felt like it burned away all the corruption that was festering inside me, cleaning and purifying until all the taint was gone. After that I think I actually slept properly.”

“What!” Inigo breathed, awestruck.

“I know. It’s … it sounds mad,” I said, staring at the high stone ceiling. “But now — I can remember the house. I can remember everything that happened … Tyranus, and the cage, and — and the _voice_ … but it feels like I’m looking at it through cheap glass. I can sort of see the shapes in my memory, but it’s all a bit fuzzy, and I can’t _feel_ it. I can think about it all — remember His name, and what He did — and it doesn’t hurt. It’s like a wound’s been cauterised. It’s the same for Dead Men’s Respite, and Sheogorath, and the attack the other day — I know what happened, I know how it felt, but I don’t _feel_ those emotions any more. Does … does that make sense?”

“I … think so. It sounds like the feeling of remembering a horrible thing after a long time has passed. It is how it feels for me to remember my parents, now — I feel sad that they are gone, and I can remember the agony I felt then, but I do not feel it any more.”

“Yes! Exactly like that.” I raked my hands through my hair. It was stiff with dried sweat. “I didn’t even realise just how much all of this had been weighing on me. I feel so light, Inigo. So free. More like myself than I have in … a long time. I feel very weak, though. And I’m _starving_.”

Inigo broke into a broad smile. “I shall go and fetch you some food. I am so glad, my friend. It is very good to have you back.”

* * *

Despite how long I had slept I was still exhausted, and after eating what must have been half the inn’s stock of food for the day promptly fell asleep again. I woke in the late afternoon, feeling substantially more alert and awake. A long, hot bath did as much to restore me as the sleep had.

“You really do look much better,” Inigo said, peering at me closely. I was back in my bed, picking through another enormous meal. My stomach felt like a bottomless pit I could keep shovelling food into forever.

“I feel much better,” I said thickly through a mouthful of sausage.

“You know, Kirilee … I have been thinking. Your escape and renewal, I think it must have been the Gods.”

I nodded. “I was thinking the same thing myself. That light … it had the same sort of … _flavour_ to it as what I felt when facing Sheogorath. The spell I spoke was the same, too. And besides, what other force could have been strong enough to resist the Lord of Domination? Certainly not a little mortal mind like mine. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“You have been blessed, my friend. Quite literally.”

“I … suppose so, yes. But I can’t help wondering _why_? Why would the Divines bother to intervene on my behalf? I’m nobody very special, in the grand scheme of things. I’m just a musician.”

Inigo considered me for a long moment. “I disagree, my friend. You may not be a conquering hero of legend, but I think you are special nonetheless. I have met few in my years with your kindness and compassion. These are things increasingly rare in this world, and who knows? Perhaps the Divines think a good heart is worth the trouble of fighting for.”

“That’s … thanks, Inigo,” I said. “That’s very kind of you to say.” I picked at my food, letting my hair fall over my face to try and conceal my blush. After a minute or two I looked up again, feeling grave.

“There’s something very worrying about all this.”

“What is it?”

“Well … I’ve been in Skyrim for less than two months, and I’ve already come face to face with two of the four corners of the House of Troubles.”

“Yes — you have been very lucky twice over, my friend. I am glad you are still alive and unhurt.”

I shook my head. “No, it’s not that. It’s …” I stared fiercely at the wall. “This can’t be a coincidence, can it? I know the Daedra are far more likely to take an interest in mortal affairs than the Aedra, but I’ve never even heard of a single person who wasn’t actively looking for them to come into contact with two of the Daedric Princes over the course of their whole life, let alone the span of a few weeks.”

“You are right. But what is there to be done?” He shrugged. “Perhaps it is only coincidence. Perhaps the Daedra have been drawn to Skyrim because there is so much turmoil and conflict, and you just happened to stumble into them. It was not as though they sought you out. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Like poor Tyranus,” I said softly. “Though no — he came here specifically for that house, didn’t he? Wait a minute … You — you don’t suppose he was _lured_ there? Aren’t vampires part of Molag Bal’s whole dominion? Maybe He was trying to finish off the work His servants started … If only the Divines could have saved him, too.” A horrible thought struck me, and I sat bolt upright, toppling my tray of food onto the ground. “Inigo! What if it wasn’t a coincidence? Surely the province is lousy with love problems — what if I was meant to — to _save_ Tyranus, and that’s why Mara wanted me to come to Markarth?” The blood drained from my face. Had I _failed_?

Inigo laid a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Please, my friend. Relax. Whatever brought us here, I do not think you could have prevented what happened in that awful place. Please. Do not blame yourself. You escaped His trap — we all did, even Tyranus. I think he was the one intended to go into that cage.”

I hugged my knees to my chest and looked at Inigo, my eyes swimming with tears. “He didn’t escape. Molag Bal took his mind, and then you killed him. We didn’t save him.”

“I know. I … I regret it. But imagine instead if he had been taken fully by the Daedra … undergone whatever transformation was waiting for him and then sent back into the world. I regret his death, but I do not regret the choice. I do not think he would have wanted the alternative.”

“You’re — you’re probably right. But even so, I wish … I wish …”

“I know, my friend.”

There was a long silence. Poor, poor Tyranus. Inigo was right, of course … but if only there could have been another way. _Could_ I have saved him? Probably not, I had to admit to myself. I hadn’t even been able to save myself.

“In any case, that’s probably my allotment of supernatural threats filled for the rest of my life,” I said at last, trying to keep my voice light. “I hope. The mundane problems are more than enough.” I sighed, thinking of Sorex. How were Corpulus and Minette coping? I hoped Lisette’s music was helping to lift their spirits, in my absence.

I suddenly yelped.

“What is it?” Inigo sat bolt upright, his whiskers standing on end. “Your mind — it is not starting again?”

“No, nothing like that. The Jarl! My performance! I’ve missed it!” I was frantic. Faleen had told me Jarl Igmund was a very particular sort of man, and would surely have taken umbrage at being snubbed by a common bard. I could not afford to invite the displeasure of one of the Jarls so early, particularly as it was my first time performing as a member of the College.

“Relax, my friend. Do not worry. I sent word that you were ill with bone-break fever and would perform when you were recovered. They even thanked me for not endangering the Jarl’s health!”

I flopped back onto my pillow. “You’re amazing, Inigo. Thank you.”

“Shall I tell them you will play tomorrow?”

I swung my legs out from under the covers, nearly stepping on Meeko who was devouring all the food I’d spilled onto the floor. “No. Send word I’m coming tonight.”

“But you are still so weak, would it not be better to —”

“No,” I said firmly. “I’ve had enough of this city. I want to get to Riften, finish whatever Mara needs me to do, and get home. I should never have left. I can see that now.”

“Very well. If you are sure.”

Inigo helped me out of bed, and into my gown. I would normally have felt very uncomfortable disrobing in front of, well, anyone, but given what Inigo had witnessed over the past days it didn’t seem very important any more. He still didn’t want to talk about the details of my … madness? Possession? But whatever he had seen had been far more naked and intimate than the sight of me in my smallclothes.

We walked up to the Keep together. I was still very weak and wobbly, but Inigo and Meeko’s support — both physical and emotional — steadied me. By the time we arrived I was already peckish again.

“You’re feeling better?” Faleen said as she hurried over to meet me.

“I am, thank you,” I replied. The change that had come over the stern woman was astonishing. She seemed mellowed, the hard lines of her personality softened, like a block of ice left to thaw in the noonday sun. Seeing her smiling face made me feel much better. I revised what I had said to Inigo just an hour before — regardless of what had happened in that house, it had perhaps been worth coming to Markarth just for this. With Mara’s blessing, hopefully this time their love would triumph.

As one might have imagined, I didn’t play my best for the Jarl of Markarth. Luckily he seemed satisfied enough nonetheless, and presented me with a very similar ugly necklace to the one given to me by Jarl Laila. “Maybe they keep a special stockpile for visiting bards?” I speculated to Inigo as we walked back down to the inn.

I arrived back at the Silver-Blood Inn hungry and exhausted. Even though I’d spent most of the day sleeping I still felt as though I could have slept for a week. I retired early, to the innkeeper’s disgruntled mutterings — I knew he wasn’t happy I wasn’t playing, and bringing in custom to his inn, but I needed the rest more than I needed his goodwill. I was eager to be off as early as possible the following morning, and fervently hoped never to return to this beautiful, cold, frightening city of stone.

* * *

It took us four days to reach Riften. I was regaining my strength, but slowly, and so we took a very measured and leisurely pace on the roads, as well as a full day to rest in Whiterun. Though I knew it was necessary, I chafed at the slow pace. Not only was I eager to return home to Solitude, but once we were outside Markarth’s walls and back on the horses I was immediately beset by a prickling, creeping fear. It crawled up my arms and along my neck in tiny barbed waves, making my scalp itch and my fingers clench, while a thorny knot settled in my stomach to be jolted with every lurch of the saddle. Presumably the Dark Brotherhood would by now know that they had failed. Would they send another assassin? Or even assassins? I was jumpy and nervous, taut as an over-tuned lute string, and exhausted my already meagre supplies of energy by feverishly raking the bushes with my eyes for any sign of a rustle or a flash of black and red. Once when a fox darted across the road in front of us I was so startled that I accidentally heeled Talara into a full gallop, nearly trampling the poor thing as my pony shot forward like an arrow loosed from a bow.

Inigo’s assurances that I need not worry — that his ears were good enough to give us plenty of warning if we were likely to be attacked, and besides, how would the assassins know we were travelling out here in the middle of nowhere? — only soothed my nerves a little, and I was enormously relieved when we finally saw Riften’s dark stone walls looming ahead of us. Despite Riften’s unsavouriness and my encounter with the thief on my last visit, cities to me always meant safety and security, while the wilds were strange, unknowable places of fear and danger. My anxiety ebbed away as we stabled the horses, and by the time we stepped through the city gates I was thinking only of Mother Balu, and what Mara’s third task for me might be.

Inigo was positively beaming as we walked through the streets towards the temple. “Ahh, Kirilee, is it not good to be back? Smell that wonderful Riften air!”

My lips tightened. I had been trying very hard to do exactly the opposite.

“Are you sure you would not like to relocate here?” Inigo continued, gazing around himself with the kind of soft-eyed warmth one usually saw on the faces of courting couples. “Remember Mister Talen-Jei and Miss Keerava’s offer? I am sure they would pay you very well! We could have a very good life here, I think.”

“I’m positive.” While I had to admit that, yes, Riften’s golden aspens looked very beautiful as they rippled in the wind under the late afternoon sun, I couldn’t forget the rampant poverty and corruption simmering just under the surface.

A tiny beggar-girl reached out a tentative hand as we passed, clearly too anxious to tug on the expensive fabric of my breeches to catch my attention. I pressed a few coins into her outstretched palm. My heart twisted at her too-large eyes standing out against her too-thin face. Mother Balu had told us that the temple simply couldn’t feed and clothe so many impoverished children, no matter how hard they might try. We stopped for a few moments so that the girl could give Meeko a thorough patting, and my heart clenched harder at the reluctant smile she wore as Meeko luxuriated under her attentions. It seemed far too unfamiliar an expression for a child so young.

“I do wish there was more we could do,” I said softly to Inigo once we were out of earshot. “But I don’t know what. How do you fix a city that’s rotten all the way to the core? It has to come from the top,” I mused aloud, not waiting for a reply. “Laila is the key to this, I’m sure of it. A ruler is their realm in miniature. A strong ruler begets strength and stability. A weak ruler, well …” I gestured around me.

Inigo gave me a sideways look. “But what about a ruler who is strong, but harsh and cruel?”

“Well, yes, obviously strength must be tempered with compassion. Father always said —” I clamped my mouth shut, realising my mistake. A flush crept up my neck. I hoped Inigo hadn’t noticed, but by the tiny smile he wore while determinedly not looking at me I was almost certain he had. How much had he guessed already?

_And would it really matter if he knew the rest?_

I dismissed the errant thought. There wasn’t time for this right now. I needed to see the priestess.

The Temple of Mara was once again a haven of clean serenity amidst Riften’s greasy agitation. Stepping from the dusty-blustery day outside into the temple’s warm stillness felt like submerging myself into a gently steaming bath, or into my mother’s welcoming embrace after a long journey away from home. I felt safe; comforted. And oddly, like I _belonged_. There was an undefinable homeyness to this dimly lit room, a sense that this was where I was meant to be; had always meant to be. Had I felt this way on previous visits? I tried to sort through my memories of the last time I had been in Riften, but before I could explore this strange feeling any further a voice carried from the gloom in the back of the temple.

“Once again, Lady Mara’s messenger returns. How fared you in Markarth? It has been long, ere you last set foot through these doors.”

I blushed, and hoped it was too dark for Mother Balu to notice. “I’m sorry, Mother. I got a bit … sidetracked. But it went well — very well. Calcelmo and Faleen are reunited, and I think he better understands the value of what he has, now, and how to keep it.”

Mother Balu beamed. “The Goddess smiles at your efforts, child. The dawn shines bright upon you. You have seen the young, fickle love of youth and helped a more seasoned love find its way.”

“Thank you, Mother,” I said. I thought about telling her about the house, and Vigilant Tyranus, but decided against it. Inigo was probably right. It had probably been a coincidence. And if she didn’t bring it up herself? Well, then, she probably didn’t need to know, and what had happened could remain between me, Inigo, and whichever Divine’s light had seared through my consciousness. Much as I had been healed of the worst of it, I still had no desire to revisit that awful time any more frequently than was absolutely necessary. Had it been Mother Mara Herself who had saved me?

I tried to calm my swirling, whirling thoughts. Instead, I said to Mother Balu, “There’s one more, isn’t there?”

“Yes, daughter. Here. Take this.” She reached behind her neck with both hands, and after fiddling for a moment pulled from beneath her robes a large, elaborate necklace with a symbol I recognised from the altar behind us. A ripple of shock ran through me.

“Wait … I know what those are used for here. I don’t — I don’t have to — _get married_ , do I? Is that the final task?” I asked, horrified, as I took the heavy necklace. Behind me Inigo broke the hushed stillness of the temple with a huge guffaw of laughter, quickly silenced by Mother Balu’s very un-priestesslike glare.

“ _If you would let me finish_ ,” she snapped. She cleared her throat, then resumed her usual ‘I am a mystical and metaphor-loving vassal of the Divines’ voice — or tried to, at least. She was obviously far too annoyed to pull it off convincingly.

“There is one final aspect we wish for you to explore,” she continued, “for a strong love can withstand storms and even survive death. Take this symbol of Mara. Wear it when you sleep tonight. She will guide you to the wandering souls of two whose love was so great that their entwinement binds them to this world.”

I looked hesitantly from the necklace to Mother Balu’s still rather thin-lipped face. “Yes, Mother. I — I’ll do my best.”

As soon as we were out from under the priestess’ eyes I stuffed the necklace as deeply into my pocket as I could.

“You do not wish to wear it proudly on your breast?” Inigo grinned. “You could attract the eye of a handsome young suitor, settle down, buy a charming little home by the canal …”

“Shut up,” I growled.

“Ah, my friend, your rebuttal reveals that you are the very soul of eloquence and wit. By the Moons, you should have seen the look on your face when the priestess pulled out the necklace! May I see it?”

“No.” I pushed it even further into my pocket.

“Taking no chances, I see. I am not surprised. Given you bathe every day you are probably among the most eligible of Riften’s single women. It is only a shame you do not have lovely thick fur like me and Meeko, but I suppose every young bride must have _some_ flaws …”

I did my best to ignore Inigo, instead lengthening my stride to try and pull far enough ahead that he couldn’t see my extremely red face. Unfortunately, as his legs were so much longer than mine he kept pace easily, and kept needling me until we had almost reached the Bee and Barb. Finally he seemed to have had his fill of teasing and patted me reassuringly on the arm.

“I am sorry, my friend, but it was very hard to resist. I will make it up to you with one of Mister Talen-Jei’s very nice cocktails, yes?”

I pulled open the door to the inn. “Fine. Just keep your hands away from my pockets.”

He held them up and adopted an entirely unconvincing look of feigned innocence. “I swear.”

“You’d better. Hmm, but afterwards I might find a quiet corner to do some practice, it’s been — oh, hello Talen-Jei, is everything all right?”

The innkeeper was looking very glum as he swept the already-spotless floor. To my surprise, he hadn’t reacted to my appearance with the pleased greeting I had expected, but instead with a sort of grimace and a look of almost … apprehension? I tried not to pout. I had been rather looking forward to a warm welcome back to the inn, after I had made such a good impression last time.

“Hello, Miss Kirilee, Master Inigo. How can I help you?” I noticed he had avoided answering my question.

“Rooms for the night, please, and drinks, for now,” I said, while Inigo left our things at an empty table then disappeared towards the restroom. Talen-Jei’s face tightened further.

“I — ah — yes, we have rooms. And, er, drinks.”

“Wonderful. Thank you, Talen-Jei.” What on Nirn was going on here? Why was he acting so strangely? Behind the bar Keerava was also scowling, but that was hardly unusual, for her. “And I’ll perform tonight? Usual rate?”

Talen-Jei froze mid-sweep. “I … ahh …” His eyes darted around the room. It was hard to tell, given his scales, but I thought he might have been flushing. Keerava, who had been watching the interaction, strode over; he turned to her, wringing his hands. “Keerava, my dear, Kirilee wants to play …”

Keerava met my eyes. “We can’t pay you,” she said baldly.

“What?”

“Sorry. That’s how it is. We can barely afford to keep the inn open at this rate. There’s no coin for music, much as we’d like it.”

“But — how?” I gasped. “I don’t understand, you always have so much custom … Has the inn not been doing so well in the last month? Is it the war?”

“No.” She glanced quickly over her shoulder, then back to me. “It’s the mead.”

“The — the _mead_?”

“Black-Briar mead. Price keeps going up and up, but we’re under contract to keep the selling price fixed. Soon we’ll be making a loss on every bottle.”

“But … but surely that can’t be _legal_!”

Keerava gave me a pitying look. “Haven’t you learned yet, girl? Legal doesn’t come into it in this city. Dung-for-brains Talen here gave that skeever Hemming some backtalk, now we get punished for it. That’s how it works in Riften.”

I gaped at her soundlessly. This couldn’t be real. I’d known Riften had problems, yes, but this was so far beyond what I could ever have imagined. Running an honest couple out of business just because Talen-Jei had stood up to a man who had told him he ought to enjoy being a slave? No. This wasn’t right. This couldn’t happen. I felt the anger swelling within me, and bright spots of heat appeared on my cheeks.

“No.” My voice shook with barely-suppressed rage. “This ends now. Meeko, stay.” And ignoring Keerava and Talen-Jei’s protests, I swept from the inn.

My anger burned ever hotter as I stormed through the marketplace towards Mistveil Keep, fueled by the omnipresent signs of the city’s decrepit decay. This was all Maven Black-Briar’s fault, and that weak, idiotic Laila Law-Giver’s for allowing it to happen. This city could be so beautiful if only they treated it _right_. It was all so wrong. I would not allow it. _Could_ not allow it; not while retaining any shred of my honour as a member of the ruling class.

I burst through the public entrance of the Keep, startling the snoozing guard.

“I need to see the Jarl. Now,” I barked.

“Err … is she expecting you?” he began, but quailed under my furious gaze, and muttered, “… Follow me.”

As I stalked after him through the corridors a tiny part of my brain screamed at me that I was being foolish, that here I wasn’t anyone important, I couldn’t just storm into the Keep as though I owned the place — but I ignored it. I would beat some sense into that sorry excuse for a jarl, even if it meant spending a night in jail. I’d had enough.

Laila was in her audience chamber, just finishing up her afternoon holding court. I had to stop myself from pacing while she finished what seemed to be little more than a social call from some petty noble or another. Her face broke into a delighted smile when she saw me waiting, turning to polite puzzlement at my clearly heightened emotional state.

“Kirilee, darling, it’s so nice to see you! But whatever is the matter?”

“Maven Black-Briar!” I burst out, far more loudly than I had intended to. “The matter is Maven Divines-cursed Black-Briar, and what she’s doing to this city! Can’t you even _see_ —”

“That’s enough,” Jarl Laila interrupted coldly. “Now, dear, you may have impressed Us with your charm and talent, but do not get ideas above your station. Maven is a close and personal friend. She has helped Us immeasurably in seeing to the running of this city and hold. You should be praising her, not casting aspersions on her good name!”

“But —”

“Do not test my patience, _girl_. A _common bard_ such as yourself could not possibly be expected to understand the delicate dance of politics, or of ruling a hold. I suggest you leave, now, and I shall put this outburst down to an amusing fit of bad temper and worse sense. Do I make myself plain?” Her eyes were narrowed in anger too, now, and glinted dangerously.

I drew myself up. This puffed-up, pompous, prissy _idiot_ of a so-called ruler thought _I_ didn’t understand politics, or how to rule? I would show her. My whole face burned with rage. I opened my mouth, fully intending to level a furious tirade against her, jail or no, when suddenly I felt a strong, furred grip around my upper arm.

“My apologies, my Jarl,” purred a voice as I was jerked backwards. “My friend has a terrible fever. It has addled her brain, made her think silly things that are not true. I apologise on her behalf. She is not herself at the moment. She escaped from her bed while I was not looking.”

 _What?_ I tried to yank myself free of Inigo’s hand, but his grip was like iron. I opened my mouth again, and he stamped on my foot.

Jarl Laila sniffed. “Thank you, my good man. I must say, it did seem very out of character! The poor dear, make sure she gets plenty of rest and water. She has such a delicate constitution. Such a little thing.”

“I shall, my Jarl. Thank you for your patience.” He swept into a low bow, never loosening his grip on my arm. “And if I might say so, my Jarl, you are looking particularly radiant today. Blue suits you very well.”

“Oh, you flatterer,” squealed Laila, her anger now completely evaporated. “Get on with you, now. Feel better soon, Kirilee, dear!”

I grunted a reply, not trusting myself to do more, and let Inigo drag me outside into the darkening air. Feeling his grip finally relax, I wrenched my arm furiously from his grasp.

“What in Oblivion was that about? A fever has addled my brain? What were you _thinking_?”

“What I was _thinking_ , was that I would not like my best friend to be dead in a canal by morning!” he hissed back. He didn’t seem angry, but he wore an extremely serious expression. “Kirilee. My friend. You _must_ listen to me. You must be very, very careful what you say in Riften.”

“I am care—”

“Do not be foolish, my friend! You cannot simply march into the Keep and shout at Jarl Laila to be rid of Maven Black-Briar!” Taking me gently by the hand he led me into the shadow of an aspen tree, its golden leaves now dull and grey in the disappearing light. “Come, now. You have more sense than this. While you have not yet told me exactly who you are — for what I am sure are very good reasons — I am not stupid. I am more than smart enough to know you are more than you say. Surely you know enough to see what is happening in this city!”

“Yes, and I —”

“Then surely, _surely_ you must understand that Maven Black-Briar is not to be underestimated. If she had reason to want you dead she would make it happen. Neither one of us would be able to stop it. Is that really what you want?”

I stared at him. His amber eyes caught the last of the sinking sun, shining like miniature twin suns themselves. A heavy weight of shame sunk into my belly. He was right. I had been unbelievably stupid, so caught up in righteous indignation that I hadn’t stopped to _think_. Father would have been so disappointed in me.

Then an even weightier shame joined the first. Inigo knew I wasn’t being wholly truthful with him.

 _Of course he knows,_ a little voice whispered from the back of my mind. _Did you think he was completely blind? Or as stupid as you’ve been today?_

I ground my teeth together. I should just tell him. Right then and there. He had guessed most of the truth already, why not finally tell him the rest?

I opened my mouth — and closed it again.

“Let’s head back to the inn,” I said softly. “I’ll play for them, even if they can’t pay.”

Tears blurred my vision as I followed Inigo back through the marketplace and towards the Bee and Barb. Why couldn’t I just _tell him_? He had earned my trust a dozen times over. And I _did_ trust him. I trusted him with my life.

But … all my life, I had been treated differently because of who my family were, and who I was by association. I could never just be Kirilee. No matter where I was or who I was with, I was Kirilee Dobraine, daughter of Perival Dobraine. But Inigo ... Inigo was the best friend I’d ever had. And our friendship had been built with me as just _myself_ , not as the daughter-heir of the Duke of Aldcroft. I didn’t want to go back to being defined by who my parents were. I couldn’t. Especially not with Inigo.

_Except Inigo himself had to learn that a relationship can’t be based on a falsehood, not for it to be true and real. Eventually you have to face the truth. When will you learn the same thing yourself?_

_Soon,_ I promised myself. _Soon._

… Just not today.


	17. Mara's Final Task

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW in end notes to avoid spoilers.

Midmorning of the next day found us on a carriage bound north from Whiterun. I had indeed dreamed while wearing the necklace, of a tall stone spire protruding from a patchwork of colourful vegetation. I’d recognised it immediately — I had seen it more than once from the back of a carriage while travelling between Solitude and Whiterun. Inigo had told me it was called Gjukar’s Monument, and was some kind of memorial to a battle hundreds of years past.

Luckily, I could now manage two Marks, and on our way through Whiterun a few days prior I had placed my second in a secluded corner of the city. Before we had Recalled to Whiterun I had also moved my Solitude Mark temporarily to Riften. It was annoying and tedious work, but I considered a few hours of spellcasting and a terrible headache a worthwhile tradeoff for saving at least a day’s worth of travel back to Riften once the task was done.

I lay on my back on the hard wooden bench as we rode, wincing at every jolt to my aching head.

“Can you not take it away with magic?” Inigo asked after a particularly loud groan.

I shook my head, but stopped very quickly. “No. Healing spells have never worked for me on things like headaches and hangovers. I don’t know why. Maybe whoever wrote the spells did it on purpose so that apprentices couldn’t just get drunk every night consequence-free.” Inigo snickered.

In truth, I was almost glad of the pounding headache. It was the perfect distraction to keep me from mulling over my idiocy of the previous day. Talen-Jei and Keerava had given me pitying looks when we had returned to the inn, though to my relief, hadn’t pried — the look on my face had probably told them enough. Talen-Jei had filled my goblet of wine extra full, however, and I had left them an extra large tip.

The closest stop to the monument, called Granite Hill, was still several hours’ walk from the site. However, the unseasonably warm and sunny weather had put Bjorlam in a very good mood, and as we were the only ones riding he consented to carry us all the way there. When we clambered from the carriage sometime in the early afternoon we could see the great stone pillar only a few hundred yards away, and I tipped Bjorlam handsomely for his courtesy.

“Arr, t’were nothing, lass,” he said, touching the brim of his straw hat. “You sure you dinnae need me to wait? Ain’t no trouble.”

I shook my head with a smile. “We might be quite some time. Thank you, though.” He nodded in response, then whistled and flicked his reins. Inigo and I moved quickly off the road to avoid the cloud of dust the carriage stirred as it picked up speed, trundling away towards Rorikstead.

“Well,” I said, my eyes fixed on the pillar, “we’re here. Nearly.” I was inexplicably nervous.

I still wore the Mara necklace Dinya Balu had given me. Somehow it hadn’t felt right to take it off, after the dream — though I had tucked it securely beneath my blouse, which I had laced all the way up to my neck. I did _not_ want anyone getting any ideas, especially Bjorlam.

We made our way towards Gjukar’s Monument, pushing through the knee-high carpet of grasses and wildflowers. Inigo tried to tell me about the various types, but I was hardly listening, all my attention held by the enormous grey pillar growing ever larger as we approached.

I stopped short. At the base of the monument stood a translucent, blue-white figure. “Svaknir?” I breathed — but no, we drew closer, and I saw that this ghost was a woman. I remembered Dinya Balu’s words: _She will guide you to the wandering souls of two whose love was so great that their entwinement binds them to this world._ Suddenly I understood.

A fluttering nervousness erupted in my stomach as I walked towards the spectral woman, Inigo following behind. Meeko had already bounded up to her, and was pushing his head beneath her hand, as if asking to be petted — but she didn’t seem to notice him, and his head passed straight through the faintly-glowing fingers.

The spectre’s features were washed out and blurred, like a watercolour painting made with overly diluted pigments. I could see right through her to the weathered carvings on the monument in front of which she paced. It felt somehow stranger and more eerie to see a ghost out here, in the open air and under the sun, than in the depths of a crypt.

“Hello,” I said. My voice shook.

“Please, help me,” she replied. Her voice was a distant whisper I could barely make out over the breeze. “I’m searching for my Fenrig. He was marching with Gjukar’s men, who they say were wiped out here. I’ve turned over every body, though, and I can’t find him. Please, help me look. He had a bright red beard and hair.” She wrung her ghostly hands.

“But … there aren’t any bodies here,” I said, even as a suspicion grew within me.

“Are you a fool?” she said, suddenly angry. “Look at the bodies around you! Even if you're blind, surely you can smell the blood!”

“Yes. Yes, you’re right. I’ll — we’ll help you look for Fenrig. Stay here.”

She returned to drifting forlornly around the monument as though I hadn’t even spoken. My heart ached for this poor, lost spirit. I turned to Inigo, who looked uneasy.

“What has happened to her?”

“I’ve got a pretty good guess,” I said sadly. “Her husband — Fenrig — must have fought in the battle to which this monument was erected. He died. She died too — that same day, or later — but her soul couldn’t move on. Probably because she couldn’t find him … or maybe because she couldn’t let go. So now her soul is stuck here forever, searching for her lost love.”

“And your task is to reunite them?”

“I suppose so.”

And so we began to hunt for the departed Fenrig. At first I was sure it would be the work of mere minutes — the woman had been visible from quite a distance, surely her equally-spectral husband would be too? — but the hours passed in fruitless searching without even a hint of ghostly blue. The Whiterun tundra was, however, beautiful enough that I didn’t mind the extra time spent. We could see for what felt like miles in the golden air, and I let my eyes meander across the colourful quilt of grasses and wildflowers stretching from my feet into eternity. I was so enraptured by the plants and butterflies and distant grazing animals, in fact, that I nearly stumbled headfirst into two different sabre cat dens, both times being rescued at the last moment by Inigo’s hasty grip on my arm.

“Look,” he said after the second, pointing at the ground. “See there, the tracks? And there, the flattened grass — and there, the scraping away of bark from the tree where the cat has been sharpening his claws.”

I nodded. I had spent very little time in the wilds, and had never learned how to spot or identify signs of animal habitation, whether large or small.

As the hours wore on, my delight in the natural beauty surrounding us began to fade, to be replaced by an odd sort of itch at the back of my mind. Something about this … didn’t feel quite right. It didn’t fit. Though the situations with Fastred and Klimmek then Calcelmo and Faleen had been quite different, they were also very similar, in a way. In both instances the problem had been solved by those involved being brave and letting themselves be vulnerable. By offering up something that frightened them to win a greater prize of the heart. Bringing two long-dead lovers together? While it certainly felt noble, and worthy … It didn’t fit. Who was being courageous? Who was taking a risk?

A sudden jolt of shock rippled through me, and I stumbled, the living carpet brushing my knees as I caught myself from falling.

_That’s not the test._

I glanced over my shoulder at Gjukar’s Monument, still visible from hundreds of yards away. It pointed into the air like an accusing finger.

What had I learned, from my tasks in Mara’s service?

_Love is courage._

_Love is vulnerability._

_Love is trust._

My eyes alighted on Inigo. He stood about fifty feet away, and was loosely firing arrows for Meeko to chase and retrieve. Meeko jumped, snatching one cleanly from the air, and Inigo’s clear, carrying laugh rang across the plains.

_Love is letting someone else see those parts of yourself you want to keep hidden._

My brow broke out in a sweat, despite the cool afternoon air. The Mara-necklace was suddenly a pressing weight on my breast. I was breathing quickly but shallowly, and felt myself starting to grow lightheaded.

_Love is trust._

I stepped through the long grass. My fingers had found their way to the amulet, and I was clutching it so tightly the metal dug painfully into my fingers and palm.

“Inigo?” I said, so quietly it was nearly a whisper. I almost hoped he hadn’t heard, but as always his hearing was immaculate.

“Yes, my friend? Have you found our ghost?”

I swallowed a few times, trying to dislodge the lump in my throat. I was trembling.

“Inigo. My full name is Kirilee Gwendolyn Alianora Dobraine. I am the only child and heir of Lord Perival Dobraine the Third, Duke of Aldcroft, the Sword of Glenumbra.” The Mara amulet was growing warm from my fevered grip. “I’m not from Daggerfall. And I’m not just a minor noble from an insignificant house. My family is actually quite important in High Rock society. I grew up playing with the King’s grandchildren. I lied. I’m so sorry.” I blinked away tears, afraid to meet Inigo’s eyes. The amulet grew warmer still in my fingers. Surely it couldn’t be taking this much heat just from my body?

“Kirilee.” I couldn’t look at him. “Kirilee, look at me.” I kept my eyes fixed firmly on the clump of purple flowers at my feet.

A furred finger pushed my chin upwards, until I was looking directly into Inigo’s scarred, beautiful face. The motion freed the tears that had been pooling in my eyes, and they ran down my cheeks. My lip trembled. He was smiling.

“It does not matter.”

“What?”

“It does not matter, my friend. I had already guessed some — most — of what you say. I understand why you did not speak of this sooner.”

“You don’t — you won’t —”

“Treat you differently?” I nodded mutely, spilling more tears onto my cheeks. “Not if you do not wish me to. The greatest gift you have given me is the lesson that we need not be defined by our pasts, but who we make of ourselves moving into the future. How could I deny you this same gift?”

I threw my arms around Inigo — wonderful, kind, patient Inigo — and sobbed unashamedly into his shirt. He held me with one hand and patted me on the head with the other. Suddenly I gasped. The amulet had burned warmer still, a white-hot flash so bright and hot it nearly hurt, causing Inigo and I to jump apart with a start.

“What was that?”

I fingered the amulet lying on my breast. It was no longer burning hot, but warm; a comforting, enveloping warmth that spread outwards until my whole body felt wrapped in soft swaddling-cloth. I heard a voice in a back corner of my mind, a whisper, a warm breeze, so soft and fleeting I might have thought I’d imagined it:

_Wᴇʟʟ Dᴏɴᴇ, Dᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ._

I smiled at Inigo, wiping my eyes. My heart felt light and free. “I think … Lady Mara approves. And …” I rotated around, following the tugging at my heart, until I faced the strange solitary mountain jutting from the plains to the north. “Fenrig is this way.”

* * *

We returned to the stone monument in the late afternoon, ghostly husband in tow, just as the light was starting to redden and the shadows to lengthen. The long-dead lovers recognised each other instantly, the woman we’d learned was called Ruki rushing towards the approaching form of her husband with her arms outstretched.

“Fenrig! You’re alive!”

“Of course I am. Why are you here?” He strode forward, closing the distance between them.

“I heard that Gjukar’s men were wiped out. I came to find you.”

“But that battle isn’t expected until tomorrow …” He took her proffered hands in his own, their translucent fingers intertwining. As soon as their ghostly forms touched, their feet lifted from the earth. “Ruki? What’s going on?”

Ruki looked around wildly as her and Fenrig gently drifted towards the heavens. “I don’t know! I’m so confused. What’s happening?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Fenrig softly, cupping Ruki’s hand in his cheek. “I’m here. We’re together now. And we will be forever.”

I watched them rise through the sky, my heart thumping painfully and tears sparkling in the corners of my eyes. Inigo’s hand slipped into my own. When their lips met, and they dissolved into the sky, I turned to beam at Inigo. His own face was transported with joy. I didn’t know what he saw in my eyes, but when he met them he suddenly laughed joyously and pulled me into a hug, then lifted my feet off the ground and spun me round and round and round until I was dizzy and laughing and squealing as I hadn’t since I was a child. He placed me back down, and I promptly fell over, landing roughly on my backside. I flopped all the way down. Grass tickled my ears and the star-freckled sky still spun above me. Meeko licked me on the cheek, and I giggled.

Inigo’s grinning face appeared above mine, and he stretched out a hand to help me up. “Shall we magic back to Riften, my friend? Report your very great success to the priestess?”

“Yes,” I said, still giggling. “Just give me a moment for the world to stop spinning.”

“Excellent. Then afterwards, several of Mister Talen-Jei’s finest cocktails, yes?” He shot me a wink. “And seeing as you are so wealthy, Lady Dobraine, I would say that you are definitely buying.”

* * *

Mother Balu was waiting. She stood from her pew and glided towards me, enveloping my hands in her own.

“You are returned! And oh — child, I see Lady Mara’s radiance spilling from you in great torrents. Your efforts have helped illuminate the entire province —”

But I was hardly listening. As soon as we had entered the temple my eyes had been drawn to Lady Mara’s countenance behind the shrine. I stared at the statue, which seemed to grow greater and greater in my vision. The amulet around my neck grew warm again. More, it began to _glow_ — as did the statue’s breast, where the Lady of Love’s heart would beat with divine rhythm. I recognised that glow. I had seen it, felt it, during my most terrified and wretched moments: while staring into Sheogorath’s whirling vortex of madness as my mind unravelled like a skein of wool. While feeling my mind and soul flayed from within by Molag Bal, and knowing I was powerless to resist.

The light and warmth suffused me, spreading like warm honey from my chest until my fingertips and toes were vibrating with it. All I could see was white-hot brightness, searing and painful and oh so beautiful. I screamed, but nothing came from me except more light in a great hot deluge, cascading from my lips and my eyes and my hair and my skin until there was nothing except the light and warmth and love of Mother Mara, and the tiny bundle of consciousness that was Me.

***

I floated. I was surrounded by light. Or I was light. I didn’t know. It didn’t matter.

Time had vanished: it might have been only a heartbeat, or perhaps a thousand years, before the Voice which filled everything, was everything, reverberated through whatever reality had become.

_Mʏ Dᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ._

_Where am I?_

_Yᴏᴜ Aʀᴇ Eᴠᴇʀʏᴡʜᴇʀᴇ, Aɴᴅ Yᴏᴜ Aʀᴇ Nᴏᴡʜᴇʀᴇ. Yᴏᴜ Aʀᴇ Wɪᴛʜ Mᴇ._

_Why? How? What’s happening?_

_I Wɪsʜᴇᴅ Tᴏ Sᴘᴇᴀᴋ Wɪᴛʜ Yᴏᴜ._

_Why?_

_Yᴏᴜ Aʀᴇ Mʏ Cʜɪʟᴅ. Yᴏᴜ Mᴜsᴛ Kɴᴏᴡ. Yᴏᴜʀ Pᴀᴛʜ Hᴀs Bᴇᴇɴ Dɪꜰꜰɪᴄᴜʟᴛ. Iᴛ Wɪʟʟ Gʀᴏᴡ Mᴏʀᴇ Dɪꜰꜰɪᴄᴜʟᴛ Sᴛɪʟʟ. Yᴏᴜʀ Tʀɪᴀʟs Wɪʟʟ Oɴʟʏ Gʀᴏᴡ, Bᴜᴛ Yᴏᴜ Wɪʟʟ Gʀᴏᴡ Tᴏ Mᴇᴇᴛ Tʜᴇᴍ. Kᴇᴇᴘ Yᴏᴜʀ Hᴇᴀʀᴛ Fɪʟʟᴇᴅ Wɪᴛʜ Lᴏᴠᴇ Aɴᴅ Yᴏᴜ Wɪʟʟ Nᴏᴛ Fᴀɪʟ. Yᴏᴜ Aʀᴇ Mʏ Cʜɪʟᴅ._

_Yes, Mother Mara. Thank you._

_Yᴏᴜʀ Pᴀᴛʜ Wɪʟʟ Bᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ Cʟᴇᴀʀ Iɴ Tɪᴍᴇ. Cᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴇ Tᴏ Bʀɪɴɢ Lɪɢʜᴛ Aɴᴅ Lᴏᴠᴇ Tᴏ Mʏ Cʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ. Mᴀᴋᴇ Tʜɪs Wᴏʀʟᴅ Bᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ._

_I will._

_Gᴏ Nᴏᴡ, Aɢᴇɴᴛ Oꜰ Mɪɴᴇ._

_Wait. Before. The Daedra. You saved me. Why?_

_Iᴛ Wᴀs Nᴇᴄᴇssᴀʀʏ._

_Yᴏᴜ Aʀᴇ Mʏ Cʜɪʟᴅ._

***

I woke sprawled on the floor of the temple, my face wet with tears. Everything was changed. I was changed. My whole body throbbed with a kind of agony-ecstasy, my skin so sensitive I could barely stand the touch of the wood grain under my fingers. I blinked. The world came back into focus. I could see Inigo and Meeko being bodily held back by a spreadeagled Mother Balu.

“Let me through! I must go to her!”

“No! Give her space. She needs space. Do not worry. She has not been harmed, I swear it.”

“I’m okay, Inigo,” I said. I felt as though my voice should have been weak, but it rang clear as a bell. In fact, as the strange after-effects of my communion with Lady Mara ebbed from my body, I realised I actually felt … wonderful. As though I’d had a long night’s sleep in the world’s most comfortable feather-bed. I smiled.

“Truly? You are unharmed?”

“More than unharmed, Inigo. I’m … changed.” I met Mother Balu’s eyes. A moment of understanding passed between us, and she inclined her head.

“You certainly are, daughter. Can you not feel it, Master Khajiit?”

Inigo stopped short, his ears twitching. He walked carefully towards me, then backed away again, and repeated this a few times. His mouth fell open.

“What is it?” I said.

“I can … _feel_ you, my friend. It is like … a soft glow in the heart, the closer I am to you. I feel … safe and warm, and a little bit happier than usual.”

“That’s … that’s exactly how I feel,” I said, looking at Mother Balu in puzzlement. She gave me a small and enigmatic smile.

“I feel it too. You have been Chosen, my daughter. Chosen by Our Mother Mara as Her Agent. Bound by more than mere prayer or praise; you belong to Her, heart and mind and soul.”

“But … what does that mean?”

“That is between you and Our Lady of Love.” Her smile broadened, and she lightly touched the amulet on my breast. “The dawn surely opens upon you, child. Bear its light that all may see.”

* * *

That night was the best I’d ever had at the Bee and Barb. It might have been my imagination, after what Inigo and Mother Balu had said about how being near me had made them feel, but it truly did seem as though everyone in the inn were in a slightly better mood than usual. There were more smiles, more pats on the back between friends, and more laughter that felt hearty and genuine rather than thin and forced. Of course, it may also have had something to do with the notable absence of the Black-Briars all evening — Maven and her two older children, Ingun and Hemming, had visited the inn the previous night, but tonight neither the matriarch nor any of her three children so much as poked their noses through the door. I was inordinately grateful. Maven had not stayed long the previous night, but the look she had given me on her way out had made every hair along my arms and the back of my neck stand on end.

Though we were having a wonderful time, and I had received a mound of requests, we turned in early. We had a long ride ahead of us back to Solitude, and I was still not yet back to full strength. Talen-Jei caught me by the elbow as I headed towards the stairs.

“Thank you, Kirilee,” he said in a low voice. “I feel terrible about all this. I know this isn’t right — you deserve payment — and we can’t … I am shamed. But I want you to know how much it’s meant to me and Keerava that you’ve played for us anyway. Lately, in Riften … Happiness here is fleeting, and hard to come by. We appreciate this. More than we can ever repay.” He wrung my hand then hurried back to the bar, where Keerava was yelling for him.

I paused for a moment in the dark corner by the staircase, turning over Talen-Jei’s words in my head. A warm glow spread through me, different from that of Lady Mara’s Radiance, but no less potent. Perhaps I couldn’t solve all of Riften’s problems all at once … but I could still make a difference, if only a small one. I smiled, lifted my skirts, and climbed the stairs to bed.

* * *

We left Riften at first light. It was a foggy morning, and as we rode along the bank of Lake Honrich it felt as though we were the only two people in the world, lost in a dreamscape of neverending clouds. Of course, Inigo’s ceaseless teasing and needling rather spoiled the ethereal otherworldliness of it all.

“You know, now that you are one of the Mother Cat’s little messengers you had better not try marrying me off. I know there are many beautiful and eligible ladies who would be very lucky to win me, but I am very much enjoying the single life, yes?”

I ignored him. I had already endured a solid hour of non-stop jibes, and was trying very hard to block it out by working through some technical exercises for lute in my head. It wasn’t working.

“Kirilee —”

“For the last time, _no_ , I will not smite that rabbit for giving you a funny look!”

“No. It is not that.” We were passing through a particularly thick bank of fog, and our voices were oddly dull and muffled. “We are being followed,” he said, so low I could barely hear it.

A sharp spike of fear tore through my stomach. “You’re sure?”

“Of course. Someone has been following ever since we left Riften.”

My neck began to prickle, and I had to work very hard not to look over my shoulder. My stomach roiled and churned.

_Calm down, Kirilee. You’ve been Chosen by a literal Divine. Act like it. Think. Be brave. You can do this._

I took a few deep breaths. I could do this.

I leaned over and rummaged in my saddle-bag as casually as I could. “Do you want some water?” I called loudly to Inigo, but as well as my water-skin my fingers closed around my little engraved flute.

I brought Talara in close to Fledge, using the excuse of handing Inigo the water-skin to whisper under my breath, “I’ve got my flute. If it’s an attacker, once I’ve got them held bind them instead of — of killing them. If it’s just a bandit we can leave them for the guards to find, and if it’s an assassin … well, maybe we can find out who took out the contract.” Inigo nodded once, and loosened his belt.

I sat rigidly on Talara’s back, trying to calm my spiny, stabbing fear. It would be all right. We were forewarned. I had my flute.

Even though I was expecting it, when the attack finally came it still startled me so badly that I nearly fell off Talara’s back. Another figure in tightly-fitting black and red armour — a woman, this time — leapt from the fog with daggers drawn. She slashed wildly at Talara’s legs, but my sweet little pony danced nimbly out of the way. It was an altogether eerie scene — the woman had not made a sound, and the whole tableau was playing out in complete silence in the thick, enveloping fog.

The silence shattered into a thousand splintery pieces as a shrill note pierced the air. I’d finally fumbled my flute to my lips with trembling lips and blown, pushing my will through the instrument to wrap the assassin in magical restraints. A faint struggle against the spell — a harder push from me — and she was held. Meeko sprung forward, pushing her to the ground. She fell as stiffly as a board.

Inigo erupted from the swirling whiteness, wielding not sword or bow but his thick leather belt. After a quick glance at me to make sure I was all right he shooed Meeko out of the way, flipped the black-and-red clad woman onto her front, then wrenched her arms down and behind her back. He took her daggers and tossed them into the underbrush, then bound her wrists together behind her back. He had moved so quickly and efficiently that I still had a little breath to spare when I stopped blowing and let my magic lapse.

Inigo seized the woman roughly by her bound arms and sat her up on the earthen road.

“You’ve made a big mistake, cat,” she spat. “My family will wear your pelt as a cloak. Once they’ve dyed it a less repulsive colour, that is. Let me go, and I’ll make sure your death is quick and painless.”

“You’re hardly in a position to make demands,” I said, heeling Talara forward, the fog eddying around her hooves. I felt a strange and heady sense of power, looking down at the bound woman from the back of my horse. I was not used to others having to crane their necks to look up at _me_.

She glared ferociously, disdainfully. “You think you’ve won? You don’t even know what the game is, sweet little baby.”

I ignored her taunt. “Who sent you? Who holds your contract?”

Her glare slid into a sneering grin, as smoothly as butter spread across soft white bread. “If you knew anything about us you’d know I’ll never tell you that. Let me go.”

Inigo shook her, making her head wobble grotesquely. “Answer her question! Who sent you?”

The woman only laughed. The sound was thin and hollow in the blanketing whiteness. Inigo shook harder, demanding answers, but she only laughed all the harder. Suddenly I had an awful sense of premonition.

“Inigo, her mouth!” I shouted, but it was too late — with a last vindictive glance at me she had bitten down, hard. An instant later her eyes rolled up into her skull, and she began to shake.

I threw myself from Talara’s back. “No — no — no!” I readied a healing spell, as strong as I could manage, and pushed it desperately into the woman’s body. But the magic wouldn’t take. It slid off her like oil.

“ _No_!” I screamed, drawing deeper on my magicka reserves than I ever had before. My hands glowed with a bright white-gold light which I strained to weave into the woman’s shuddering form. She was frothing at the mouth. Her shaking intensified. She gave one last enormous gasp — her eyes shot open — then turned glassy and lifeless. Her body grew still. Inigo let her fall to the ground.

I stared at the woman’s slumped form. My eyes were wide, and completely dry. I was in shock — it had all happened so quickly — how could she just … just …

Inigo met my gaze, looking just as horrorstruck as I felt. That the Dark Brotherhood would go to such extremes to keep their secrets … I felt a leaden weight settle into my stomach. I had tried _so hard_ for it not to end in death. My teeth chattered and my hands shook. I couldn’t stop looking at the woman’s blank, staring face, her mouth still glazed with foam and spittle.

Inigo placed a hand against the small of my back and pushed gently. “Look away, my friend. This will not help you.”

“Inigo, _why_ …”

He shook his head slowly. “I wish I had answers for you. But I do not. Come, let us go. I do not think there is anything more for us here.”

He led me to Talara and helped me onto her back. As we set off again the fog began to lift, but I did not look back at the huddled figure, now clearly visible in the morning sun, bundled by the side of the road.

* * *

We rode for a long time in silence. My thoughts and emotions were a wild tempest, as though Kynareth herself battered against the inside of my skull. No matter how hard I tried, death followed me …

Why had she done it? Had she thought we would torture her for what we needed? Or was this … _standard_ for the Dark Brotherhood? I knew that to devote one’s life to taking the lives of others must entail a certain disregard for the value of life itself, but I would have assumed they’d at least value their _own_ lives a little more highly …

My shoulders slumped. Yet another senseless, pointless death — though I had to admit I found it much harder to regret this one than that of Vigilant Tyranus. And at least it hadn’t been mine. It seemed that the Dark Brotherhood’s contract was an important one, if they persisted even after the death of one of their own. I should count myself incredibly lucky.

And yet …

“Inigo, don’t you think it’s strange?”

“What is strange?”

“Well … you know about the Dark Brotherhood, right?”

“By reputation only, my friend. My past was not quite so dark as all that.”

“And what _is_ their reputation?”

Inigo answered immediately. “They are killers. Ruthless and efficient and wholly without honour or remorse. There are many killers for hire, but the Dark Brotherhood are the worst of them all. There are rumours they serve Fadomai — you call it Sithis, the Void.”

“Exactly. If someone’s hired the Dark Brotherhood then they’re serious. They’re the villains in so many novels for a reason. They’re the best — well, as you said, the worst.”

Inigo straightened in his saddle. He understood. “And yet …”

“… And yet we’ve been attacked not once but _twice_ , and easily come out on top both times. Both times they attacked in broad daylight, and both times even I could tell that they hadn’t picked a particularly, well, _effective_ method of attack. Slashing at Talara’s legs with daggers? What on Nirn was that going to achieve?”

“You are right … it is very strange. I am not sure what to make of it.”

“Neither am I. But I know who might.” I patted my breast pocket. “I wrote a letter to Father, the night after the first attack. It’s past time I wrote anyway — I’d been saving it for after I got into the College, I didn’t want to … well. But this is too important to wait for good news.”

“That is a wonderful idea! He knows very much about politics and intrigue, yes?”

“Yes. Far more than me. And if the contract was taken out by someone back home he might have some idea of who it might have been, and be able to do something about it. I’ll mail it as soon as we get home … I only wish I could afford a message-bird, but they’re so expensive.”

Inigo smiled, careless and free. He had been very tense since the attack, but news of my letter seemed to have wiped away any worries he had been harbouring.

“It is a shame. But even if you need to wait a little while, it is better than nothing at all. And we will be home in Solitude in the meantime, yes? Solitude is very safe. I do not think we will need to worry about assassins there.”

“I hope so. In any case, it will be good to be back. Even if things at the College are so … strange.” I thought of Minette and Corpulus, and heeled Talara into a canter. I wanted to be home, as soon as I possibly could: home in my city in the sky, with my friends and my new family, where the high stone walls would keep me safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: suicide, in the second half of the chapter. To avoid, stop reading when Kirilee and Inigo leave Riften, then pick back up after the last divider.


	18. Surprises

Never had a homecoming felt so bittersweet. Minette shrieked, weaving her way through the busy common room to throw her arms around me, yelling, “You’re back! You’re back! I missed you so much!”

I held her tightly, amazed at the strength in her small form. But not so small any more, I realised with a jolt. She was taller than me, now.

“It’s good to see you, Minette. I missed you too.” I instinctively looked over her shoulder, expecting to see Sorex — he was always just behind Minette whenever I returned home, with his crooked smile ready and waiting for me — but of course, he wasn’t there, and never would be again. I swallowed the lump in my throat and hugged Minette even tighter.

After we broke apart she flashed Inigo a dazzling smile, then led me by the hand to where Corpulus was working behind the bar, chattering about everything I had missed while we had been away. She wasn’t usually so effusive with her affections — was this the influence of what Inigo called my ‘Mara-aura’, or had she just missed me?

“Larkling,” Corpulus said, smiling broadly, then surprised me by pulling me into a warm hug too. I relaxed into his arms for a moment, and when I drew away broke into a wide smile myself, seeing the old twinkle returned to his eyes. I had been very worried about the state in which I would find him on our return: whether he would be winning the battle with his dreadful monster of grief, or whether I’d enter the inn to find him consumed even further. I beamed, and hugged him again. He was winning. I was so relieved. Once again I wondered — was this perhaps Lady Mara’s influence, through me?

_Don’t be silly. He’s strong. He doesn’t need Divine intervention to heal from his grief._

I felt a small flush of shame. I’d been so anxious about how well Corpulus and Minette would cope without me. Had it been arrogance on my part, to assume they would struggle?

Well, it didn’t matter. I was home now, and didn’t anticipate leaving again any time soon. Even the prospect of sleeping in Sorex’s old house no longer seemed so ghoulish, after everything I had been through in the time I had been away — especially once Corpulus told me they had replaced the bed with a new one.

“Thank you,” I said, looking up from my delicious supper of salmon and vegetables. I had sorely missed Corpulus’ cooking. “I appreciate it. It was just …”

“No, no. I understand. Oh, here — this arrived for you too, a few days ago.”

I tore the proffered envelope open, skimmed the note within, then groaned.

“What is it?” said Inigo.

“A summons. From the College.”

Corpulus glanced out the window. “It’s getting a bit late, but you might still catch — wait, what are you doing?” For I had scrunched the note up into a ball and lobbed it into the fire. Minette giggled.

“I’m eating dinner,” I said placidly. “And then I’m having another goblet of wine, and then I’m going to bed.”

“You don’t think it’s a bad idea to keep Headmaster Viarmo waiting?” Corpulus said, his brow creased.

I stabbed viciously at a potato. “No. He’s waited this long. He can wait a little longer.” Then under my breath, so low that only Inigo could hear me, “… He can wait forever, as far as I’m concerned.”

* * *

I woke from my dream — one in which Inigo and I had swapped places for a night at the Skeever, and nobody could tell the difference because he wore my gown and I his coat and sword — feeling so groggy and fuggy that I was sure I could only have been asleep a few hours. I lay still, my eyes shut, while my brain pieced together that yes, I was in my new bed in the little house adjoining the Skeever, and yes, it was the middle of the night. A cold, thin was light striking my eyelids — the brightness of the moons must have woken me. Bother. I sighed and forced my eyes open, blinking against the light. I would get up, close the curtains, and maybe have a glass of water before returning to my dreams.

The curtains were already shut.

I rubbed my eyes, confused. Had I fallen asleep with my Candlelight spell still active? But no, the light was the wrong colour …

I sat up, and an instant later screamed.

It was Sorex.

He was a ghost.

I screamed so loudly that Meeko, who had been sleeping at the foot of the bed, exploded into a barking whorl of teeth and fur. He threw himself at the spirit, but passed straight through, landing on the floor looking extremely confused. He continued to harry the spirit, biting and snapping at its ghostly legs, but nothing had any effect. Sorex’s spectral form remained unharmed, and seemingly unaware. He just stood there at the foot of my bed, arms crossed, staring blankly ahead. 

I clutched my bedcovers to myself, my hands trembling. He looked so much like … himself. Other than the strange translucency of his form and the pale blue light he was emitting, he was just as I had seen him dozens of times in the Skeever next door.

“S-Sorex?” I whispered. There was no response.

“Sorex?” I repeated, a little more loudly. “Is — is that you?”

Still nothing. Meeko was still trying half-heartedly to bite the spirit, but seemed increasingly discouraged to only receive mouthfuls of air for his trouble.

“Why are you here? What do you want?”

No matter what I asked, no matter how I asked it — no matter if I shouted in his ear or waved my hands in front of his face, my frustration overcoming my fear — no matter what I did or said there was never any response. Just the same dead, blank stare.

Eventually I gave up on trying to communicate with spirit-Sorex and instead curled up in the furthest corner of my bed from him, arms around Meeko, and just watched. I couldn’t sleep, but neither could I look away. He drew my eyes like a lighthouse, still and silent and glowing, until the sun rose, and he faded into nothingness.

An hour later I was pleading with one of the attendants at the Temple of the Divines, a hard-faced Nord woman who wore a permanent frown above her amulet of Akatosh.

“Please,” I repeated for the half-dozenth time. “It’s important.”

“And like I already said, all the priests and priestesses are busy today.” She folded her arms. “It’s a holy day. They can’t be disturbed. Come back tomorrow.”

I hung my head, and trudged back out into the crisp autumn air. What in Oblivion was I going to tell Corpulus?

In the end I decided not to say anything. Maybe it was just a one-off. There was no need to dredge up that freshly-buried pain, not yet.

* * *

It was not a one-off.

That night, after an exhausted and sloppy night’s playing at the Skeever, I bade Inigo, Corpulus and Minette goodnight and apprehensively returned to my new home. I was so anxious about whether the spirit would appear again, however, that sleep simply wouldn’t come — I tossed and turned and fretted for hours until once again that eerie blue glow illuminated the room, and I sat up, and I saw him. My heart instantly raced. Meeko growled, his teeth bared and his hackles raised, but stayed by my side. He must have remembered that he couldn’t hurt the apparition.

The previous night repeated itself — me asking questions, Sorex’s ghost staring blankly — though eventually, even though I was very frightened, my exhaustion was greater, and sleep claimed me. When I woke in the morning he was gone. I desperately hoped, as I washed and dressed, that someone would be able to help me today.

* * *

Once again I was turned away from the Temple — this time by the High Priest himself.

“This is a matter for Styrr, the Priest of Arkay,” he said. “You can find him at the Hall of the Dead.” And so I dragged myself from the Temple of the Divines down the hill to where the Hall of the Dead nestled in a secluded corner of the city, muttering all the way about that awful temple attendant the day before, who could have just sent me there herself. Meeko barked happily, and wagged his tail.

Father Styrr was a severe-looking, wizened old man who radiated intensity and authority despite his bent back.

“So, how can I help you, child?” he asked as he poured me tea, Meeko lying across my feet. I had been surprised to find that the ‘Hall of the Dead’ where Father Styrr worked was actually a rather cozy little cottage, with a warm hearth and a permanent kettle on the boil — Father Styrr told me that the actual Hall where Solitude’s dead were interred lay below our feet.

“I’m being haunted.” I was too tired to be delicate.

Father Styrr raised an eyebrow. “Haunted, hmm? In what manner? Please, tell me everything you can.”

I outlined my problem in rough and blocky sentences. I could hear the desperation in my voice as I described Sorex’s death, my recent occupation of his house, and the silent, staring spirit. My flower-patterened teacup trembled as I held it tightly with both hands, the tea within it untouched.

“Please, Father. Can you help me?”

“Hmm.” He regarded me thoughtfully, and poured himself more tea. “Drink your tea, child. It’s good.” I took a sip. It was.

“I am afraid I cannot currently shed any light on the matter,” he said heavily. “I have heard something of shades coming back to haunt a place or a person — particularly when their deaths have involved violence — but I have never seen such a thing occur myself.”

The tiny bubble of hope that had risen in my chest from the old priest’s calm sense of power popped. I slumped in my seat.

“Do not despair just yet, child. There are certain books I can consult — I may not have experience myself, but others have. I will seek their knowledge. Come back tomorrow, and I will hopefully be able to do more for you.”

“Thank you, Father.” I threw back the last of my tea and stood up, suddenly wishing to be far away from all the dead beneath my feet.

He rose from his own seat, much more slowly. “Here —” He held out one gnarled hand, and made a complicated gesture over first my head, then my heart, then my stomach. “A Blessing of Arkay. This should give you some measure of protection from the dead — perhaps even repel the spirit from you.”

“Thank you,” I said again, and blinking tiredly, allowed him to lead me from the cottage.

* * *

“What do you mean, you are being haunted by Sorex?”

“Keep your voice down,” I hissed at Inigo, glancing nervously around the room. “Do you want Corpulus and Minette to find out?” I couldn’t see Minette, but Corpulus was only ten feet away, serving patrons at the bar. I had just finished my set at the Skeever, and was sprawled in the comfortable chair by the fire which Inigo had saved for me.

I had spent the whole day lying on the floor at home, half-heartedly trying to study one of my new spells, and chewing over how to tell Corpulus his son was haunting my house. Another summons to the College had come, but I’d ignored it. I didn’t have the energy to deal with whatever politicking was going on there. I had risen only when it was time to perform at the inn.

“What do you mean, you are being haunted by Sorex?” he repeated in a whisper.

“Exactly what it sounds like. He appears at night, and stands there at the foot of my bed, staring and glowing.” I shivered. “It’s … creepy. Frightening. It’s happened two nights in a row now.”

“And all he does is stand there and stare?”

I nodded. “I can’t get him to respond at all. It’s not at all like Svaknir, or Fenrig and Ruki. I haven’t had the courage to — to touch him, but when Meeko tried to bite him to death his jaws just passed straight through, and S— the ghost didn’t even seem to notice.”

Inigo smiled fondly at Meeko and leaned down to rub his belly. “You are a very good boy, trying to defend your mistress. I am proud of you, valiant canine companion.” Meeko’s tongue lolled happily, and his tail thumped against the floor. Inigo turned back to me. “You have been to see the priests?”

“Yes. Father Styrr might have something for me tomorrow. I … I’ve been trying to decide whether I should say anything to Corpulus.” I glanced to where he was laughing heartily at something a patron had just said to him. “It’s not even been a month since Sorex died. He’s only just starting to laugh again. I — I don’t want to take that away from him again.”

 _And what if he thinks it’s my fault?_ I added mentally. _What if he … kicks me out, or doesn’t want me performing here any more? What if Minette hates me because of it?_ I knew they were irrational fears, but I had already lost one member of my new family … I couldn’t stand the thought of losing them all. The Skeever was my home.

“Kirilee,” Inigo said gently. I met his eyes. “This is a thing he should know. The right thing is to tell him, even if it causes pain. You taught me this truth.”

I swallowed, then nodded, and sipped my wine while I waited for the common room to clear. An hour and two nervous goblets of spiced wine later I picked my way across the now empty common room to the bar. Minette, thankfully, was long asleep.

“Corpulus,” I said. “I — I need to talk to you about something.”

“What is it, larkling?” he said, through a crooked smile. I felt a lump rising in my throat. I didn’t want him to lose that smile again, to be the one responsible for letting the monster of grief back in; not when he was just starting to win the fight. But Inigo was right, and so after a deep breath I told him everything: Sorex’s spectre, my attempts to deal with it, and even my previous experiences with other ghosts.

“I’m so sorry,” I finished, nearly in tears. I was so tired, and felt so lost and powerless. It felt hard to believe that only a few days ago I had spoken with a literal Divine, and been Chosen as Her own: at that moment I felt like nothing more than a frightened girl-child without a clue how to solve _anyone’s_ problems, let alone my own. “I don’t know what’s happening, or why. But I thought you ought to know.”

Corpulus shook his head as he wiped down the bar. “I should’ve known that boy would linger. What with a death like he had,” — his eyes suddenly looked haunted, hollow, and I wanted to reach across the bar and lay a hand on his arm — “and unfinished business, to boot.”

“What unfinished business?” I asked, pulling back my hand. Corpulus had withdrawn his arm from the bar, and the moment had passed.

“What do you mean? You, of course!”

I stared at him. “What?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know! By the Eight, is that why you never made a move?”

I looked from Corpulus to Inigo, feeling increasingly wrong-footed and confused. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

“I think I do. Your Sorex, he was rather taken by our Kirilee, yes?” Inigo said to Corpulus.

_What?_

Corpulus chuckled. “That’s putting it lightly! Boy was in love, fell hard and fast as a stone. Smitten from the moment those green eyes met his. Why d’you think he always worked the floor on nights you were playing, Kirilee, hmm? Though I suppose you wouldn’t have known he always tried to get out of it when you weren’t, given you weren’t here,” he mused, scratching his nose.

I flushed, hot and bright. No, I hadn’t known. I’d just thought we were friends.

“It was an open secret he was meaning to court you,” Corpulus continued. “Always asking the regulars what kind of flowers they thought you might like, whether you preferred silks or satins …” He leaned onto the bar, and his eyes became distant. “He was going to ask you, when you got back from that tomb. He was so worried something would happen to you, and he would never get his chance. That poor son of mine was more right than he knew.”

He turned suddenly away, and began arranging the row of wine bottles on the shelf behind him — all of which, I noticed, were already perfectly aligned.

“I’m — I’m so sorry.” I didn’t want to impose, not when he was like this, but the question burned within me: “… What did you mean, was that why I never made a move?”

He turned back slowly, his eyes over-bright. “Why, larkling, Mina and I thought you felt the same way. We were sure we had the right of it when you took his death so hard.”

My eyes were fixed on a knot in the polished wood of the bar. I didn’t know what to say. I had been fond of Sorex, yes, but never thought it went any further than that. _Had_ there been more? I probed my feelings. He had been kind, and rough, and welcoming. He had made me feel like I belonged, and I had enjoyed being around him. Was that what love felt like? I’d never been in love before. But everyone who _had_ said that when you were, you knew it.

I didn’t know how I felt about Sorex. All my feelings about him were tangled up in pain and grief and confusion; his memory tinged with the turbulence of his sudden and violent death, Dead Men’s Respite, and my awful first experiences with the College. But what was even the point in dwelling on whether I had felt anything more than friendship? He was dead. And now his spirit was watching me sleep at night.

… Well, at least now I had a probable answer for _why_. Maybe it _was_ my fault.

I realised Inigo and Corpulus were both staring at me, waiting for a reply.

“I was very fond of him,” I said truthfully, a lump in my throat. “I miss him dearly. I wish I knew what to do so he could rest.”

“Perhaps this knowledge will help Father Styrr,” Inigo said, patting me on the shoulder.

Corpulus breathed a heavy sigh. “I hope so. My boy deserves to rest.”

* * *

Father Styrr was not in a good mood when I sought him out the next morning. He had been up half the night searching for a ritual that might help me, and had finally found one tucked away in a dusty corner for banishing hostile spirits — only for me to tell him that this spirit was the very opposite of _hostile_. He still performed the ritual, but warned me it was probably a waste of time.

“We’ll find out tonight, I suppose,” I said, blinking at him with red-rimmed eyes. I was so exhausted I could barely dig up enough emotion to worry.

* * *

The ritual didn’t work.

“I’m sorry, girl, I can’t help you,” Father Styrr snapped from his doorway. He had not invited me in. “There’s nothing more I can do.”

I stared at him, blinking. I was so tired. What had he said?

“In future, I’d advise you to avoid making men fall in love with you, waiting for them to suffer a violent death, and then moving into their home.”

I nodded. Of course. It was so obvious. So simple. “I’ll try my best.”

He shut the door with a snap. I stood staring at the burled wood, swaying on the spot, for several long minutes.

Now what?

* * *

The next morning I woke in a comfortable, familiar bed. I had slept in my old room at the Skeever, unable to face another night of haunting. Corpulus had suggested I return to the inn as a temporary solution, and I had accepted his offer with gratitude.

I breathed in deeply as I blinked against the warm morning sun. This room, this bed, brought back such rolling waves of nostalgia. My first weeks in Skyrim had been spent here — and really, this room still felt like home. Certainly more so than my current home. It seemed hard to believe that I’d been in Skyrim for just over two months: in some ways it felt like I’d only just arrived, in others like I must surely have been here far longer. So much had happened. I was changing; had already changed. It felt … nice, to be back in that room, relive the memories of my first terrified days in the province, and feel the weight of how far I’d come. What would my parents think of the woman I was becoming?

Most importantly, however, I’d finally had a good night’s sleep. I was amazed at how much more clearly I could think with a proper rest. The past handful of days had been a haze of confusion and exhaustion. Now that I had slept, the solution to my problem seemed obvious, and I quickly washed, dressed and hurried downstairs for some breakfast.

I needed to find a new house.

* * *

Suppertime found me back at the Skeever, once again sprawled in a seat in front of the fire, groaning.

“I am sure you will find something soon,” Inigo said, carefully cutting his steak into perfectly even strips. I had never understood this strange compulsion of his.

I rubbed my temples. “I had no idea the property market was so tight in Solitude. This city is huge. How can there be _nothing_ available that suits me?”

Inigo shrugged in a ‘well, what did you expect?’ sort of way. I scowled at him. Still, at least I could sleep at the Skeever until I found a new home, much as I didn’t relish taking up semi-permanent residence in an inn again.

I picked up my own supper — a bowl of seafood cream soup — exposing an elaborately-addressed envelope on the table.

“You will ignore this one too?” Inigo said, pointing his knife at it.

I nodded, my mouth full of soup. “I haven’t had the stomach to face Viarmo’s patronising pat on the head for being able to sing _Ragnar the Red_ perfectly after _only a few short weeks_.” I turned my scowl onto my soup, glaring at an errant scallop. “To be honest, I’ve been wondering whether it’s even worth bothering to maintain my membership with the College. I’m not learning anything, and while the extra coin is nice … I’m earning enough to live quite comfortably without it, now. The status, too, I may not really need. Remember Kleppr, at the inn in Markarth? My _own_ name is starting to open doors for me, and not because I’m a so-called student at the so-called College.”

“Hmm. Perhaps you are right. It would certainly give us leave to travel more widely, if the College were not tying you to Solitude.”

“Perhaps.” I wasn’t so sure about that. College or no, I _liked_ Solitude. Loved it. It was starting to feel like _my_ city. It was fun to travel to other parts of the province, yes; but it was equally sweet to return back to magnificent, grand Solitude, the city in the sky.

I still wanted my home to be here, I realised. It was just a case of finding the right one. One without a ghost in it, preferably. I sighed and returned to my soup.

Later, as I lay in bed, I stared out the window at lonely Secunda, hanging like a great silver amulet in the night sky. Forever alone, anchored to a world she could not touch.

 _I’m sorry, Sorex,_ I thought. _I wish I could give you closure. But the best I can give you is absence. I hope that will bring you a little peace. I can’t offer you more._

_We’re not Fenrig and Ruki. This is not a story of timeless love._

_I’m sorry._

* * *

I had another ghost-free night’s sleep at the Skeever. It seemed as though the apparition really was tied to Sorex’s old house; or perhaps to the concurrence of Sorex’s house and myself. I was eating my breakfast and ruminating on the likelihood of another futile day of house-hunting when a young runner-boy approached my table. Another summons, not just from the College but Viarmo personally, and the terrified courier stressed that the Headmaster had made it clear that this time it was _not_ optional. I sighed, finished my porridge, and traipsed desolately to the College, Inigo in tow.

Viarmo was sitting behind his desk when I entered his office, holding a sheet of paper he had presumably been studying when I had knocked. He gestured to the chairs facing his desk, and Inigo and I took a seat. The Headmaster raised his eyebrows a little at Inigo’s presence, but didn’t comment. I couldn’t help noticing that my chair was rather uncomfortable — just bare, unpadded wood — and shifted a little. I would have expected a wealthy and powerful man like Viarmo to have fancier furniture … but perhaps he kept this chair deliberately hard and uninviting. _I wouldn’t put it past him,_ I thought spitefully.

“Ah, Kirilee, good to see you at last,” he said with a wide smile. “I was rather beginning to worry you had been ignoring my summons on purpose!”

I raised my eyebrows slightly at the unexpectedly indulgent tone. What on Nirn was going on here?

“Your runner-boy found me,” I replied in a flat voice. “What can I do for you, Headmaster? Did you want to hear _The Age of Aggression_ , or,” I winced, “ _Ragnar the Red_?”

He shook his head and chuckled; a low and surprisingly melodious sound. “Oh no, don’t be silly, girl! No, I have rather good news for you — due to your rapidly growing skill and obvious talent we’ve decided to fast-track you to the College’s advanced curriculum. Well done indeed!” He announced this all in a very formal, pompous tone.

I stared at him in disbelief. _What?_ I opened my mouth to ask how he could know anything about my talent _or_ skill, given he had not once heard me play, but Inigo kicked me under the desk.

I hastily rearranged my biting comment into one of flattering thanks, and listened as Viarmo outlined my new curriculum. I would be joining the advanced class for flute as well as the intermediate class for drumming, and would be taking private voice lessons with Master Ateia and lute lessons with Master Six-Fingers — so much for her pronouncement of ‘no private lessons’. Most interestingly, I would also be studying with Viarmo himself. Because of my aptitude for both music and magic I would begin learning a particular school of magic rarely taught in the current day and age: not just music, and not just spellcasting, but a sort of melding of the two. It seemed Inigo had been right that the College was the place to ask about music-magic.

“I think I do something like that already,” I butted in, excited. I pulled the slim little flute I had ensorcelled from my pocket — I carried it everywhere now, after the assassin attacks — and handed it to Viarmo. “I enchanted some forms into it, though to be honest I don’t think I did it right — but I use this in battle. I blow through it, and sort of … push my will through. Bind it to the music somehow. I can hold one or two creatures or people immobile. Is that what you’re talking about?”

Viarmo took the flute and examined it. “Hm, very interesting indeed. Yes, you’re correct — you’ve completely botched these runes. Not that that’s surprising; it’s very advanced magic indeed for someone untrained in enchanting to attempt. The effect you describe is coming just from yourself. A twining of your innate magical potential and your will, as you said … though I’ve never heard of it being done the way you describe. You’re not using any formal spells or forms at all?”

I shook my head. “I just sort of … hold them with my mind. There aren’t any forms in my head at all. I assumed the magic flute would do that part — but you said it doesn’t work?”

“No, girl, it’s all you. Very interesting indeed.” He rolled my flute between his fingers, thinking. “But yes, the magic I am describing bears some similarity to what you’ve been doing with this, but in a more … civilised manner. It is a _proper_ melding of magic and music, using formal spells, but anchored to melody. In some ways you’ll find it much harder than this cruder music-magic you’ve been employing so far, but in other ways you’ll find it far simpler and more elegant. For one, because it draws on your magicka rather than, I suspect, your raw will, you’ll find it much less demanding to maintain. Your magical effects also won’t be constrained to the one or two listeners on whom you’re concentrating. But we’ll discuss this in more depth tomorrow. Here —” He gave me back my flute, and stood up from his chair. I was struck again by how tall he was. He strode across his office — which though large, felt rather cramped due to the stacks of paper and books and files piled high on every surface — and to an overflowing set of low shelves, atop which perched a neat stack of books. He picked them up and dropped them into my lap.

“Your spell tomes — or rather, spell-song tomes. Have a flick through them before our first lesson tomorrow. You’ll also find a folio there, from Inge. Cyrodiilic pieces, I believe. You are dismissed.”

It took me several long seconds to shake off my disbelief and stumble from the room. This was the absolute last outcome I would have expected of a private summons from Viarmo. Was this why I had been summoned every day since returning to Solitude? And … _why_? Why now? Why had I been treated so differently before my trip away, and what had changed? Did Master Ateia have something to do with this?

As though summoned by my thoughts, Pantea Ateia herself materialised as Inigo and I left Viarmo’s office. She took me by the elbow as I tottered into the entrance hall, feeling extremely confused, and barely balancing my towering stack of books in my arms. Inigo had declined to help, saying it would be good for me to practice lifting something heavier than a wine bottle.

“Kirilee. Congratulations, and well-deserved.” She smiled, softening the angular lines of her hawklike face.

“Ah, thank you, Master Ateia?”

“I hear you’re looking for new accommodation.”

I nodded mutely, head still reeling from the meeting with Headmaster Viarmo, and in response she dropped a key on top of my enormous pile of books. My jaw dropped.

“Wh-what’s this?”

“It unlocks a small apartment on the corner of the upper city’s ramparts. The corner closest to the Winking Skeever — do you know it?”

“I know the area, yes … I think I know the apartment you mention.” I _had_ idly noted an apartment in passing during my many walks along the city walls. I thought it might even have a little rooftop garden, perhaps — I had spotted what looked like a tree sticking out the top.

“Well, that apartment belongs to an Imperial bard you might have heard of. Leliana Goldwine.”

I gasped, and nearly dropped my books. Surely not _the_ Leliana Goldwine, the famous Nightingale herself?

“Yes, she bought it while she was living in Skyrim,” Master Ateia continued. “After she moved back to Cyrodiil she left the place in the care of the College, and charged Viarmo with seeing to renting it out and forwarding the income on to her.” She huffed, and shot the closed door behind us a look. “As you might imagine, our illustrious Headmaster has been … less than attentive to finding an occupant. It’s been sitting empty for months now. To tell you the truth, it’s not the easiest place to rent out. Not many people want to live up on the wall, especially not overlooking the lower city. It’s at a particularly awkward price point, too. Most who can afford the fee Leliana insists on prefer to live elsewhere. She’s asking a little more than the place is worth, if I’m being honest with you — but if you want it, you can have it at whatever price you can afford, and the College will make up the difference.” She smiled warmly at me. “You’d be doing us a favour, really.”

I doubted that very much. I stammered my thanks, turning very red, and barely managing to keep hold of my books. Inigo retrieved the key and slipped it into my pocket before it fell.

“I’ll see you in our lesson later,” Master Ateia said, and swept away. I swore I could see the shadow of a wink.

So somehow, in the course of little more than an hour, my life had completely turned around — for the better. Inigo and I hurried straight to my new apartment, and it was just _perfect_. It was indeed small, but had a sense of majesty, of weight, lent by the heavy stone columns and archways. I now had my very own bathtub — a luxury I had last enjoyed in High Rock — and even a rooftop garden, which a friendly flock of ravens seemed to call home. I suspected they may have been Leliana’s pets.

Perhaps my favourite feature of all, though, was the walltop location. Finally I could see out across the city in every direction; across the harbour and marshes and surrounding pine forests, as far as the distant mountains that were little more than smudges on the horizon. Here I would finally truly feel like I lived in the sky.

After confirming that yes, I would like to live here, we returned to the College to set up my rental payment. Master Ateia had not exaggerated; the rent was more than I was paying Corpulus, but I could afford it, and I preferred to pay the full amount rather than risk jeopardising my unexpected new favour with Viarmo by drawing on the College’s coffers. I then went to speak to Corpulus, who was glad to hear I had managed to find somewhere to live. He was not too upset about my leaving, thankfully — especially as I offered to pay the next month’s rent on the little house regardless.

“Father Styrr dropped by earlier,” he said. “He told me that if I could convince — what was it now? — ah yes, _that fool girl_ to leave, then Sorex’s spirit should fade over time. I figure, we’ll leave the house empty for a month, then the Father can do some ritual that should allow my poor boy to rest for good.”

“I hope so,” I said softly, and then after a long pause, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” He gave me a watery, crooked smile. “Sorex’s days were better for your having walked into his life — our lives, I should say. I’m glad his last weeks were ones of joy and hope. And I’m glad you’re here, larkling. Truly. Don’t be sorry.”

Minette, however, was distraught. We hadn’t told her about Sorex’s ghost, not wanting to traumatise her any further, and so all she saw was me leaving them for no good reason.

“Please, Minette,” I begged through her bedroom door, which she had slammed in my face. “Come out and talk to me. I’m not abandoning you. I’m still here — my apartment’s just up on the walls, only a stone’s throw away. Wouldn’t you like to come and see it? There are some amazingly smart ravens I’m sure you’d love.”

“Go _away_!”

“Minette, please —”

“Leave me alone! Why’d you even bother coming back, if you were just going to leave again?”

The hand I’d been resting on the cheerfully-painted wooden door fell to my side. I felt empty and hollow. However could I fix this?

Corpulus laid a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Don’t mind her. She’ll come around,” he said in a low voice. “Just give her time.” He smiled. “Haven’t you got an apartment to move into?”

I gave the door one last pained look. I would make this up to her. I had to. Somehow.

* * *

It took us several trips to move my things into my new home, and after climbing up and down those stairs half a dozen times I could understand why people might be reluctant to live there. But as I sat on my bed in my wonderful new apartment, with my best friend reading in the chair next to me and my dog snoozing at my feet, I thought that — even knowing Minette’s disappointment — I had not been happier in a very long time. My fingers brushed lightly over my new spell-song tome, then the folio of Cyrodiilic pieces Master Six-Fingers wanted me to learn. I smiled. Mara’s love pulsed in my breast. It seemed that my life in Skyrim was finally taking the path I had been seeking.


	19. Music and Magic

The only pleasure I could imagine greater than that of sitting in a wicker chair in a rooftop garden, perched on the city walls with a spectacular view over a glistening harbour and lush green forests, was in learning a new piece of music while doing so. That afternoon while surrounded by the cries of seagulls and the smell of pine needles I learned the first of the pieces from the Cyrodiilic songbook, a _Chaconne_ by an early-Fourth Era composer called Martinus. It was a true delight to study; complex but fluid, and sitting beautifully under the fingers. In many ways the music of Cyrodiil was similar to the music we learned at home, but with a few interesting twists of harmony and unique melodic idioms that made it feel fresh and exciting. It was like the music was a cousin to me — familial, but still a little distant and exotic. I loved it, and thoroughly enjoyed pulling the piece out during my set at the Skeever in the evening for some extra practice before my first lesson with Master Six-Fingers the next morning.

I was nervous — playing for a Master for the first time was always a bit frightening — but afterwards I thought I had acquitted myself well. It was hard to tell, as Master Six-Fingers always came across quite … grumpy, but she seemed to find me an adequate student.

“Your technique’s solid,” she commented briskly as we packed up, “if different from how I usually teach it. Good ear, too. And a well-developed and mature feel for music, for a girl your age.” I blushed. I got the sense this was high praise indeed from the grizzled old woman, and rare. “Terence Ylbert taught you, you said? Hmph. I’ve always wondered what kind of musicians he produced. You may write to him and tell him I find his work adequate.”

I stifled a smile at her imperious manner.

“I’ll hear the Martinus next time,” she said from the doorway of her office, once I was out in the corridor. I nodded. We hadn’t had time to dive into the piece I’d prepared, as we’d spent most of the lesson working through my fundamentals: scales, arpeggios, chords, hand and finger technique and the like.

“Thank you, Master Six-Fingers,” I said. “I look forward to it.” And I meant it, too. In truth, despite my former Master’s fame and higher status in the musical world, I thought that Master Six-Fingers’ own snobbishness was definitely deserved. I’d had a wonderfully gruelling lesson. She was a true master who had assuredly earned her moniker ten times over, and I could tell she would help me grow immensely.

My lesson with Viarmo was just as interesting, though perhaps even more draining. As well as working on my lute music, I’d spent a solid chunk of the previous afternoon studying my new spell-songs, beginning with something called a Tune of Healing. It was very tricky, and quite unlike anything I’d studied before. I was glad to have already been practicing my proper spellcasting in unknowing preparation. Although channeling magic through my flute was somewhat similar; as Viarmo had said, the difference between the two types of music-magic was enough to twist my brain into knots.

Rather than drawing on my will, this type of music-magic relied primarily on my magical abilities. The Tune of Healing felt very similar to my healing spells — the forms were similar, and it used my magicka as its fuel — but channeled through my lute rather than my hands. As I found in my lesson, this allowed me to cast my spell much more widely than I was used to, as I didn’t need to focus the spell on a person; merely push it into the music itself. I could tell, too, that even though it was much harder to learn than the more primal will-based music-magic, it would have huge advantages. As Viarmo had mentioned, it was nowhere near as draining. I didn’t have to keep my will focused for the whole duration: once I cast the spell it kept itself running, and my magicka was also an inherently more easily renewable source of fuel than my will. From what I could gather of the spells I had flicked through, I also particularly liked that this type of combat magic seemed primarily focused on bolstering one’s allies rather than hurting one’s foes. I still wasn’t sure whether using magic aggressively was something I even _could_ do, and I had increasingly mixed feelings about using my will to overpower another’s, despite how many times it had unquestionably saved my life.

Viarmo and I discussed all these points, and many more, during our lesson — which also included an inordinately long chunk of time devoted to Viarmo repeatedly hammering me with the importance of safety and control when using this type of magic.

“These spells are tied very closely to the notes we play. You need to be extraordinarily careful not to slip up with the musical component of the spell, else the whole thing will fail; or worse, corrupt. Just as when you’re casting a somatic spell, except there’s even less room for error. You must be _precise_. You must be _disciplined_. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Headmaster.” He had given me this speech half a dozen times already.

“Good. Again, then.”

I sighed, and played the Tune of Healing for what must have been at least the twentieth time. I didn’t think I made any mistakes — yet Viarmo had me repeat the spell-song over and over for another two hours before he was satisfied I had mastered it sufficiently to continue practicing alone.

“Good. We’ll continue there tomorrow. Remind me, which school of magic do you favour?”

“Alteration, sir.”

“Right, then this afternoon I’d like you to learn the forms for the Tune of Endurance. Spell-songs fall into the same schools of magic as regular spells, and you’ll find some come more or less easily to you. Most are Alteration-based, which is lucky for you, but there are some in Restoration — like Healing, obviously — and even a few which fall into Illusion. Though we might not bother with those ones, unless you’re particularly interested?”

I shook my head. Illusion magic had never interested me. It mostly included spells which directly affected another’s mind and influenced them magically to act in ways they didn’t want to, without them even realising. It felt _wrong_. Worse than Destruction, even.

“Fine. Endurance, then. Got it?”

“Yes, Headmaster. Thank you, Headmaster.”

“See you tomorrow, then.”

I was drained after my morning’s lessons, but nevertheless sloped back home to my lovely new apartment and set to work. After lunch and a few hours of lute practice I spent the rest of the afternoon learning the Tune of Endurance, and as Viarmo had said, I found it much simpler to learn than the healing Tune. I was frustrated that my Restoration lagged so far behind my Alteration, but gratified that there _was_ a school of magic which seemed to come more naturally to me; and by the time my stomach started rumbling for dinner I felt both exhausted and elated. Finally, _finally_ , I was learning and growing my musical — and magical — skills.

One thing continued to tug at my thoughts, however. What had led to Viarmo’s sudden change of heart and demeanour? What had _happened_ while I’d been away from Solitude? And how could I find out? I could hardly imagine dour, grouchy Inge Six-Fingers sharing College gossip with me, and Master Ateia had already proven herself to be annoyingly tight-lipped. Would my classmates perhaps know? Somehow I doubted it.

Then an idea struck me: _Nythriel_. She was often at the Skeever of an evening, and knew almost everything that happened in the city. More, she was usually quite happy to share her gossip, given enough alto wine and ego stroking.

I grinned wickedly as I pulled on my gown for the evening’s performance. Yes. Nythriel might just be the answer. Humming, I picked up my lute, whistled to Meeko and headed towards the Skeever, suddenly feeling energised once more.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, it was all about a foolish man’s foolish pride.

As I had suspected, Viarmo sending me to Dead Men’s Respite to retrieve King Olaf’s Verse had been a sham — he’d all but confirmed it himself when on my return he’d let slip that he hadn’t expected it to be there.

“Oh yes, dear, total bollocks,” Nythriel said animatedly over her second bottle of alto. I got the distinct impression that she’d been dying to tell me all about this for … well, weeks, probably, and making me ply her with wine and flattery was really just for show. “The College is simply _flooded_ with applicants, you know — well, you’ve seen them yourself, trailing about the streets like lost little lambs — most of them without an ounce of musical training. You know the type, dear — run away from their boring, dreary farms and villages, in search of the exciting and glamorous life of a bard?” She gave me a sly smile, and rested three slender fingers on my arm.

“Yes?” I used the excuse of taking a sip from my own goblet to remove my arm from under her touch.

“Well, after decades of this — you know how long we Altmer live, dear — _poor_ dear Viarmo got rather tired of all the endless auditions, as you can imagine, I’m sure. So these days he just sets any unknown would-be bard an impossible task and calls it a day. Then the silly young things eventually give up and go back home to their dreary farms and dreary lives once the big city’s sapped away all their coin and enthusiasm. Job done, with no wasted effort for the illustrious Headmaster.”

I stared at her, agape. “But … wouldn’t that mean there are lots of talented and enthusiastic musicians the College misses out on?”

Nythriel tittered. “Of course, darling, of course! But usually they still just disappear without a fuss, and can the College really miss what it never had? No, the _important_ part is that they not cause a headache for the College, or for Viarmo — and besides, you know yourself, dear, that anyone important or skilled enough for it to actually _matter_ would have come with a letter of introduction from someone or other. Or would have been personally recommended by someone already affiliated with the College.” She took a long sip of the dark wine. Her eyes sparkled at me over her goblet. “Yes, it was a rather perfect system indeed, my dear — but then _you_ came.”

Yes, then I had come. Viarmo had of course treated me like any fresh-off-the-boat nobody … but instead of quietly disappearing, I had _stayed_. Worse, I’d had both the skill and perseverance to start building a name for myself.

“People started to _talk_ ,” Nythriel said gleefully. “Why, you made yourself a fixture at the upper city’s best-known inn, and the good people of Solitude started asking _questions_. Why wasn’t this _charming_ young bard associated with the College? Why — Viarmo turned her away, without even hearing her play, despite her _obvious_ skill! No, she turned down an offer to the College, because she was _so_ unimpressed with the Headmaster! No, she never even applied, she was sent from Cyrodiil — they really can’t place an accent to save their lives, dear — to show all of Solitude just how inadequately the College is being run!” She was clearly having the time of her life, slipping from one role into another. I thought again that she really ought to have trained to be a bard herself, or for the stage.

Nythriel leaned across the table, her face alive with spiteful exultation. “The rumours flew thick and fast, my dear. Viarmo is rather unpopular, you might be a _touch_ surprised to hear, which rather fanned the flames of gossip, you might say. People were positively aching for any rumour which painted the _illustrious Headmaster_ in an _unflattering_ light.”

My own wine sat forgotten on the table in front of me. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Eventually, of course, the rumours reached the ears of Viarmo himself,” she continued airily. “But what could he do? You didn’t leave, but you didn’t return to the College to ask for another chance, so he had no way of admitting you without losing even more face. Then a miracle of Auri-el Himself happened: _you brought back that silly poem_. Not only was that an enormous feather in his cap, politically speaking — you know, the whole business with convincing that silly bint Elisif to reinstate that festival — but now he could pretend he really had set you that idiotic task as your admission test.”

“But — but he was still — my classes —”

Her laugh tinkled like Radiant Raiment’s little silver bell. “Oh, darling, don’t you see? The poor old mer had been humiliated by you thrice over! So in his _infinite wisdom_ he decided that the only way to prove to everyone that he’d been right all along was to treat you like a brand new student with no prior skill or training, wilfully ignoring all evidence to the contrary.”

“And Master Ateia?” I breathed.

“Oh, yes, _darling_ Pantea. She knew you could play, of course, and the poor dear found it frankly ludicrous you were being treated like an absolute beginner. We spoke about it _many_ times over a bottle, dear. She had argued against it from the start, but Viarmo shut her down whenever she brought it up, and forbade her — well, forbade all the Deans — from treating you as you _deserved_.”

“Yes — she gave me extra material, in secret — sent me away from the city —”

“Oh yes, dear, she thought she might have more luck talking sense into Viarmo without you constantly under his rather over-long nose.” She smiled, and poured herself some more wine. Clearly she was waiting for me to ask, so I obliged:

“Well … did she?”

“Did she _ever_.” Her thin-lipped smile stretched catlike from ear to ear. “Perhaps a week after you left, half the city was _treated_ , dear, absolutely _treated_ to a screaming match between sweet miss Pantea Ateia and that irascible old mer. Nobody outside the building could hear what they were rowing over, of course, but I … _persuaded_ darling young Ataf to tell me that the subject of the disagreement had been … _you_.”

Inigo tapped me on the shoulder with a bowl of stew. I waved him away. “Go on. Please.”

“Oh, if you insist, darling.” She knew she had me eating from the palm of her hand, and she plainly gloried in it. I didn’t care. Finally, I was learning the truth. “Well, darling Pantea had apparently shown him the error of his ways, and he intended to assign you to your _proper_ classes on your return to the city. But then you came back, and you didn’t present yourself to the College! Day after day, his summons were ignored … and once again, dear, the rumours flew. That you found the College inadequate, and didn’t need Viarmo and his stuffy old school for your star to shine.”

I choked on my wine, which I had finally remembered, and just taken a gulp of. These were the very same things I myself had been thinking on my return to Solitude!

“Of course, darling, then he really panicked. I hear you received a rather _firmer_ summons yesterday? And a little bird told me you’re taking rather … _special_ classes with the Headmaster himself, now?”

I nodded. I should hardly have been surprised that Nythriel already knew about my music-magic lessons.

Her eyes glittered like iridescent beetles. “Yes, dear, a very _exclusive_ privilege you’ve been given, haven’t you? Something to make sure you’ll stay …? You see, dear old Viarmo hasn’t actually condescended to teach for — oh, what’s it been, at least a decade, now? — and it’s well known by simply _everyone_ how jealously he guards the secrets of his very special magic.”

I stared. I was speechless. It all fit — and yet I simply could not wrap my head around a man being this self-destructively proud and foolish. I almost felt sorry for him. 

“He’s not a bad old man, not really,” Nythriel concluded, standing up from the table remarkably steadily, considering how much wine she’d had. “Just rather obstinate, somewhat insecure, and full to the brim with his own self-importance. Very classically _Altmer_ , you might say.”

She gave me a last pat on the shoulder and glided away. I shook my head, still trying to process everything I’d heard. I’d have to buy Master Ateia the entire stock of the Solitude Patisserie in thanks.

Inigo dropped into her newly vacated seat. “Well? What did I miss?”

I blinked at him for a moment, then I started to laugh. I laughed, and I laughed, and it was a very long time before I could stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \---THE END of PART ONE---
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with the story thus far! I hope you continue to enjoy it as we move into the next phase of Kirilee's time in Skyrim.


	20. An Unexpected Task

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \---PART TWO---

Life fell into a comfortable rhythm over the following weeks; an easy balance of work, leisure and friendship. On weekdays I dove deep into my new studies at the College. I worked hard every day from morning until late at night, my time split between lessons, practice, study, and nights performing at the Skeever.

My lessons at the College were finally proving as challenging and fulfilling as I had always hoped. My teachers drove me hard — it seemed that now they were allowed to acknowledge my potential, they were eager to push me to fulfil it. Master Six-Fingers had me working through the Cyrodiilic songbook as well as polishing my technique and ‘working out the burrs’, as she put it, and expected me to practice for at least three hours a day. To my annoyance she emphasised that my evenings at the Skeever definitely did _not_ count, and even more annoyingly I knew she was right to make the demand. Under her beady eyes my playing blossomed. In truth, while I’d been _playing_ a lot since arriving in Skyrim, I had also been stagnating. I hadn’t had a teacher in months. There had been nobody to push me to stretch myself, and show me where I needed to improve — Inge Six-Fingers gleefully assumed that responsibility, and stretched me in ways I didn’t even realise I could be stretched. It was wonderful. The one drawback was that my work with Master Ateia on singing filled most of what time I had left, and I barely had any time to work on my flute or drumming … but it didn’t bother me overmuch. The lute was my first and purest love.

In truth, it became difficult for me to find much time for my music at all, as an increasingly greater part of my days had to be spent on magic. By far my most frequent and demanding lessons were with Viarmo. He was impressed I had picked up the basics of the minor spell-songs over the span of a week or so, and we worked nearly every day at refining my mastery of them. In addition to practical exercises, Viarmo spent a great deal of time covering the theory and history behind this Art, and impressed upon me over and over again how careful I needed to be, and how much responsibility rested with any practitioner of music-magic.

Given what I’d learned from Nythriel, I had been somewhat apprehensive about how we’d get along as master and student in such an intimate and rigorous setting. I need not have worried, however. It seemed almost a relief to him to have resolved the ‘situation’ with me, and now that I was under his purview, as well as proving to be a reassuringly hardworking student, he was warming to me, I thought. He was a surprisingly good teacher — patient, and with a gift for explaining things in a way which I found clear and easy to grasp, despite the complex and difficult material. It didn’t take long for me to understand why Viarmo had warned me that music-magic was an incredibly demanding discipline, and why few chose — or were able — to master it.

I found myself thinking that perhaps Nythriel hadn’t been entirely fair in her assessment of the old mer … though I felt considerably less favourably towards the Headmaster on learning that the rumours were true, and he was so enthused by the Burning of King Olaf Festival having the go-ahead that he now insisted on running it _every single week_ — even in the pouring rain. Luckily he didn’t try to suggest we perform, but the whole College was still required to stand around, wet and miserable; Viarmo the only bard in sight not wearing an enormous scowl. At least I got some free treats out of it, though even the sweetrolls were soggy. Jorn still ate five. Inigo had seven.

In addition to my music-magic I was also required to spend a great deal of time working on my magic-magic. Viarmo repeatedly emphasised that the two were strongly linked; that I needed to become not only a master musician but a master mage in order to be a master song-mage. And so each day I devoted as many hours as I could spare to studying my spells. I mastered a spell to lock and unlock doors, then began working on one to increase Talara’s speed when I was riding her — and, to my delight, allow her to walk on water. My favourite magical discovery by far, however, was realising that if I dropped a cushioning spell at the base of the ramparts outside my apartment I could jump safely off the side, cutting out the walk along the wall and down the stairs. The stunned faces of guards and cityfolk, confronted by the sight of a young woman in an evening gown diving off a twenty-foot wall, were an endless source of mirth for both Inigo and myself.

My greatest source of frustration, conversely, was that while my Alteration magic improved easily and rapidly, my Restoration magic stubbornly refused to. I needed a proper teacher, but while I had asked around the city, there were none to be found.

What little free time I had was mostly spent with Inigo, Meeko, and at weekends, Talara. We talked, we laughed, we explored our city, we drank bottle after bottle of Evette San’s spiced wine seated by the fire in the Skeever or sprawled on my apartment floor. We practiced our cooking together, and there, too, I was gratified to notice gradual improvement. Mother would have been proud, I thought a little wistfully, and wondered whether my letter had reached home yet.

I also spent a lot of time thinking about my strange experience with Lady Mara, and what it meant for my life going forward. While I sometimes dreamed of a comforting warm white light and an overwhelming feeling of being loved, Mara never spoke to me again as She had in the temple in Riften. I wondered at Her pronouncement that I had a path which I would need all my strength to walk … and that it had been ‘necessary’ to save me. People around me also definitely seemed to be acting a little differently than normal, I began to notice; a little more brightly and happily — feeling something of Inigo’s ‘warm glow of the heart’, I presumed. I wasn’t sure what to make of it all. What did Mara expect of me? Why had I been chosen? It made me feel unsettled; uncertain about this new mantle of responsibility I’d been given. Without concrete answers to guide me, however, all I could do was to try my best to live up to it, and to act according to Lady Mara’s wish that I should work to make the world a better place.

Minette was still stiff and wary with me, and whispers of the war unsettled the inn almost every night, but on the whole I was content, and I was happy. Life was comfortable, exciting and fulfilling in equal measures, and I settled into it gratefully. I felt like I had finally found my place. Skyrim had slapped me around for a while, certainly; but fate had now finished with me, and I could work away happily at the goal I had set myself in coming here. The surprises were done.

Divines, was I wrong.

* * *

Everything changed one morning in Sun’s Dusk. It began early — far, far too early, given how late I had been at the Skeever the previous night — with a loud banging on my front door. I dragged myself out of bed and opened the door, bleary eyed, to find the same runner-boy who had last summoned me to the College. Viarmo wanted me, and as quickly as I could make it. So I yanked a comb through my hair, pulled on the first thing I could find in my wardrobe, and stumbled to the College.

“What do you think he wants?” I muttered to Meeko, who trotted at my side, annoyingly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. “Another book of old, bad poetry gone missing?”

As it turned out, Viarmo did have a job for me — but performing, rather than barrow-delving, this time. My first official assignment as a member of the College, in fact.

“Jarl Skald Felgeif of Dawnstar wants a bard to play for him and his court tomorrow night,” Viarmo said from behind his desk. “He’s requested you by name. It’s shorter notice than I’d usually allow, but given it’s your first request I didn’t think you’d want to miss it.” His lips pulled into a dry smile, and I wondered how on Nirn he could look so chipper at this ungodsly hour.

“Me? Why does he want me?”

Viarmo shrugged, and took a sip from a steaming mug I was eyeing jealously. “Jarls often liked to sample the latest fashionable new delicacy. Lately, that’s you.”

My skin crawled a little, but mostly I was too exhausted to register much beyond the fact that I was definitely not going to be getting any more sleep. I was barely listening as Viarmo explained the particulars, trusting my memory to hold on to the details for when I was awake enough to understand them, and just nodded along until Viarmo told me I could go.

“Wait,” I said as I turned to leave, one important fact having inched up through my sluggish consciousness. “I heard the other day that Dawnstar has declared for the Stormcloaks. Will I be safe?”

“Of course you will. Bandits these days might not respect musicians’ Right of Travel, but the Stormcloaks do at least have that much honour. Besides, the College has a long history of political neutrality. You’ll be fine. Now get going.”

After picking up some supplies from home I tumbled Inigo out of his bed at the Skeever and we headed to the stables to saddle up the horses. No sooner had we set foot out of the shadow of the walls, however, than an ear-shattering crack split the sky, which then began to empty what felt like an entire ocean’s worth of rain onto our heads. Unfortunately we couldn’t wait, so merely wrapped ourselves as tightly as possible into our cloaks and soldiered on.

It was even worse on horseback. I had mastered my Thundering Hooves spell the day before, but moving more quickly just made the rain feel even more torrential. By the time we reached Dragon Bridge we were soaked to the skin and in extraordinarily foul tempers — all except Meeko, who seemed to love the storm, and had been amusing himself by splashing through every puddle he could find.

Thankfully the rain eased once we were past Dragon Bridge, but as we headed eastwards it was replaced by a biting cold that our soaked clothes did nothing to ameliorate. We reached Morthal in the late afternoon, and I thought to myself that a more pitiful, bedraggled, feeling-sorry-for-themselves pair had probably never been seen in the city.

Morthal itself did little to lift our spirits. “This place is awful,” I complained to Inigo. “Why would anyone build a city in a _swamp_? Why would anyone want to _live_ in a city in a swamp?”

The atmosphere also felt somehow strange; unsettling … I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about the place grated at my senses like an out of tune lute. Even the inn was eerily empty of life and laughter, and no sooner had we arrived than I was looking forward to leaving.

Mind you, the unpopularity of the inn may have had something to do with its resident bard. His name was Lurbuk, he was an Orc, and he was not a true bard, not really; the innkeeper said _he_ paid _her_ to play, rather than the other way round. And, well, it would have been putting it mildly to say his playing was to music as a bullfrog was to a nightingale. I should have been scandalised — the few passing travellers certainly seemed to be — but to be honest I found it uproariously funny and had to keep stifling my giggling.

“What is it?” Inigo kept saying. “I do not understand the joke. Is it the silly hat he is wearing?”

I couldn’t really explain it. Something about this tone-deaf Orc rasping about butterflies, his face filled with rapturous ecstasy, just filled me with a clear, bubbling joy. I was almost sorry to take over from him for the latter half of the evening. Everyone else, however, seemed to find it a great relief, and kept buying Lurbuk drinks — presumably in an effort to keep him distracted so he wouldn’t try to sing again.

The rest of the journey to Dawnstar was uneventful, if very cold. Not even a combination of Taarie’s meticulous craftsmanship and my warmth cantrip could keep me from shivering on Talara’s back. I couldn’t understand how the Nords could stand to live in such temperatures, and grumbled softly under my breath as we rode.

Inigo must have caught a few words of my muttering, for he suddenly said, “It is barely even brisk! Why are you complaining? This weather is wonderful.”

“It’s cold, and it’s awful. I hate it. Maybe this is why so many Nords are so grouchy all the time.” I withdrew further into myself, trying to cover my nose with my scarf.

“The only grouchy one here is you, my friend. Perhaps the problem is not the weather, but that you are … how do they put it … a soft Breton milk drinker?” He smirked. “Or maybe you should eat more sweetrolls, yes? You would not feel the cold so much if you were not so thin.”

“Maybe,” I said loudly. “Then again, I don’t have the advantage of all that thick fur. Maybe we should shave it off, and see whether you still think the weather’s not so bad without it.”

Inigo pretended to be mortally offended, but I could see his whiskers twitching. The exchange had done much to cheer me up, too, and I had to work hard to pretend to stay grumpy thereafter.

Signs of the civil war were everywhere, even in the formerly secluded and pristine frozen forests of the far north. We passed a few patrols and skirmishes between Imperial and Stormcloak soldiers, ruining the stillness of the forest and staining the snow a guesome red. By taking a wide a berth around any soldiers we spotted we thankfully managed to avoid attracting any attention. Each time I fretted as we passed. I had hoped the rebellion would have been quashed by now, but if anything, the war just seemed to be gaining momentum. I trusted Viarmo’s assurances that I would be safe, but I worried less for myself, and more for the province as a whole. How much longer would Skyrim be turned upon herself? How much longer could she survive being torn apart by her own people?

* * *

We arrived in Dawnstar in the late afternoon, thanks to our mounts’ considerably increased speed and stamina, and warmed ourselves around the fire in the Windpeak Inn while enjoying an early supper of the local speciality, a hearty seafood stew. After eating we decided to brave the cold to explore the city a little before my performance for the Jarl.

It was a strange place. The bustle and life of the busy docks and harbour contrasted starkly with the still, lifeless snow which blanketed all. The capital city of the Pale rested in a small valley, making it feel completely isolated: nothing but endless snow in every direction, except the one which led to endless freezing ocean. I tried to find beauty in its uniqueness, but struggled. I did not like it here.

An unsettling aura hung over Dawnstar, even worse than in Morthal. The inhabitants all complained of constant nightmares which had been plaguing the whole city’s sleep for weeks on end. Nobody seemed to understand what was causing them, or how they could be stopped; unsurprisingly, everyone in the city was very irritable and edgy due to lack of sleep. I wished there was some way I could help these people, but had to admit there wasn’t much I could do — I couldn’t even lift their spirits with music, as I was scheduled to spend the evening performing only for the Jarl and his court.

A little after dusk we returned to the inn to prepare for my performance. I had already changed into my gown, and opened my lute case to check my instrument’s tuning, when I noticed a slip of paper tucked into the lining. By the handwriting I recognised it as a note from Viarmo. He must have slipped it into my case the previous morning, and I must not have noticed it the previous night in Morthal, tired as I had been.

_K —_   
_Your current task provides us with a valuable opportunity. Observe, listen, and report back to me. Tell nobody. Trust me._   
_V._

I frowned at the unassuming little slip of paper, puzzled. Was Viarmo asking me to report on the situation in the city? Or that of the Jarl, and his court? What did he mean, ‘a valuable opportunity’? I didn’t understand. Was this some kind of mistake?

Ignoring the directive to tell nobody, I showed Inigo the note. For a long time he was silent, thinking, then handed it back. 

“Hmm … I wonder,” he said. “Did your bard training in High Rock include any … extracurricular elements?”

“What?” I stared at him blankly.

He tried a different tack. “Well, then. What do you know of the Nightingale?”

My eyebrows knitted. What did the legendary bard Leliana Goldwine have to do with anything?

“Just what everyone else knows, really …” I said. “She was born in High Rock, but was of Cyrodiilic heritage — common-born, but raised by a noble Breton family after her mother died. She grew up to be one of the most celebrated and accomplished bards in recent history, honoured across all of High Rock and Cyrodiil, where she now lives. I think she performs quite regularly at the Emperor’s court, but isn’t formally attached to it, and travels quite a bit. Um, also she wrote my favourite song. And I live in her old apartment. That’s basically it.”

Inigo blinked, then laughed. “Bright Moons, you really must have had a sheltered upbringing. I expected someone who grew up in the Breton courts to be far better informed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Kirilee. Leliana, the Nightingale, is not just an accomplished bard but an accomplished _spy_. In fact, from what I understand the two often go hand in hand, in High Rock. I suppose that Mister Viarmo probably assumed the same thing I did, that you are at least as trained in the arts of subterfuge and politics as in those of music and magic.”

I gaped at him. Surely this couldn’t be true. I had never … I could never …

— But then memories came flooding back; of strange glances, knowing looks, questions and comments that had never quite made sense … and it all clicked into place. I buried my face in my hands. Truly I had been naive. Why had nobody ever told me? Not my parents, not my teachers, not my friends? Had everyone been in on the secret but me?

And what did Viarmo expect of me — that I was a Breton secret operative, mistress of intrigue, ready to spy on a Jarl? I’d never done well with the politics at court. Though I had a way with people, yes, it lay well outside the realm of politics. I was far happier in an inn than a palace; better at conversation than diplomacy; better at friendship than manipulation. As Father’s heir, I knew that one day I would have to enter that world … but it wasn’t a world I particularly liked, or looked forward to joining.

All this I confessed to Inigo, nearly in tears. “I can’t do it,” I concluded. “That’s not me. I’ve never learned anything like — like that. I don’t — I can’t —”

He patted me consolingly on the top of my head. “Do not worry too much. I know that you can do this — after all, do you not use these skills every day already?”

“What do you mean?” I said, affronted.

“Oh, my friend, do not be so naive!” Inigo said. “Do you not, when you play at the Skeever, pay attention to the mood of the crowd so as best to entertain them? Do you not watch to see how the people react to your songs, and choose your next one to fit their mood? Do you not listen to the gossip and rumours, to each person’s tales and trials, and use what you hear to win their trust and friendship? Do you not come to me each evening, eyes sparkling, and tell me all the sordid stories you have learned? Why,” he laughed, “from what I have seen you are already a master manipulator — which I mean as a compliment,” he added hastily, as I shot him an outraged glance. “All you need to do is what you do every day already, as naturally as breathing. And if you do not hurry, you will be late.”

I yelped — Inigo was right, it was very nearly the appointed time — and after grabbing my lute dashed to the Jarl’s hall. I arrived flustered and out of breath, but managed a serviceable curtsey, and launched into my program.

As I played, I tried to follow Inigo’s advice, and just … watched, and listened. What I noticed was very interesting indeed. Jarl Skald the Elder held Dawnstar only by the tip of a finger. Many of his people resented and disagreed with his decision to declare for the Stormcloaks. Worse, they didn’t respect him. He had been very young indeed when thrust into the role of Jarl, and many still saw him as Skald the Younger, the stuck-up boy trying to wear shoes that were far too big for him. On some level Jarl Skald could sense this, and clung to his waning grip on authority with a desperation that just worsened the situation. There were enormous cracks here that could be exploited, and it perhaps wouldn’t be difficult to bring Dawnstar firmly back under the control of the Empire.

I pondered the implications as I took my final bow, humbly accepting the Jarl’s congratulations and reward. Then the realisation struck me like a lightning bolt — Inigo was right. I _was_ good at this. More shockingly, I enjoyed it. It felt _good_ to piece together the puzzle, find the secrets, and to do so while in plain sight; an invited and acclaimed guest, the centre of attention in a crimson ballgown.

It was very late, and I was very tired, by the time I stepped out of the carpeted hall and onto the carpet of soft new snow. Nevertheless, I took my time walking back to the inn, lost in thought, hardly noticing the snowflakes falling on my bare shoulders.

* * *

We arrived back in Solitude late in the afternoon of our second day of travel. Inigo sang and whistled the whole way back, his husky voice startling birds from the trees as we passed, but I spoke little. My mind was preoccupied; turning over the things Inigo had said, and my experiences and emotions while at Jarl Skald’s court. My hand regularly slipped absentmindedly into my breast pocket, where I had concealed the report I had written to Viarmo about what I had learned. I didn’t know how to feel about it all. What did it say about me, that I’d enjoyed it as much as I had? Did it make me a … bad, or dishonest person? Mara had Chosen me as Her Agent — did this kind of work run counter to that … _appointment_ , for lack of a better word? Surely it came with a responsibility to uphold a certain level of decency and decorum …

I sat stiffly in my saddle, my thoughts chasing each other in endless circles. I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know what to do.

Suddenly I gasped, and sat bolt upright. Inigo’s hands flew to his bow, as he cried, “What is it? Danger?”

“No — well, not that kind of danger. It just occurred to me. This … what Viarmo asked me to do. Viarmo himself. He’s Altmer. You don’t suppose he’s having me, um … could this be for … for the _Thalmor_?” I was horrified at the thought.

Inigo thought for a long moment. “No. I do not think so.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“The Thalmor … they are very insular. Protective. From what I have heard, it takes much time and training before outsiders are trusted with any but the simplest and most menial tasks. I do not think the Thalmor would give this kind of job to an unknown, untrained foreigner.”

“I … I suppose you’re right. But then … why?”

Inigo shrugged. “Who can say? Maybe Mister Viarmo simply wants to know how best to make the College more coin. Know your audience, yes?”

“Perhaps …” I wasn’t entirely convinced, but was at least reassured that my report probably wouldn’t be passing into the hands of the political faction I least wanted anything to do with.

After stabling the horses we headed to the College. I dragged my heels — I wasn’t sure I was ready to face Viarmo yet; two days hadn’t felt like enough time to process everything that had happened — but Inigo took me firmly by the shoulder when I made to detour towards the Skeever.

“Work first, my friend. Once you have delivered your report, then we can drink to our heart’s content.”

I scowled, but he was right, and I let Inigo usher me through the front door of the College while he called a cheery greeting to Evette San, and settled in for a chat.

The entrance hall had never felt so wide, and Viarmo’s office door seemed to loom in front of me as I approached. My heart pounded. But why should it? I was only delivering a sheet of paper. Trying to still my trembling hands, I knocked, and was told to enter.

“Ah, Kirilee,” Viarmo said, barely glancing up from his desk. “You’re back. How did you go in Dawnstar? Performance received well?” His voice was as flat and bland as if we were discussing the weather. He had done this before, I realised suddenly, and felt twice the fool for not having caught on sooner that this was, of course, a near-certainty.

“Very well, sir,” I replied. I was pleased and a little proud that my own voice was just as level, despite my racing heart. “The Jarl was very impressed with my playing, and I believe I represented the College well.”

“Very good. Is that all?”

“Yes, Headmaster.” I turned to go. “Oh — actually sir, while on the road I had time to compose a poem. I know I’m not very good at writing verse, and I hate to trouble you, but I don’t know any other experts in the Altmer style. Would you mind very much taking a look at it?”

“Fine,” he said, sounding irritable. “Leave it on my desk. I’ll get to it if I have time. Just don’t make a habit of it. I’ve got more important things to do than correcting the scribblings of children.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” I slipped the folded sheet of paper onto the desk, and headed for the door.

“Enjoy your weekend. See you Morndas.”

Even after I had left the room, my heart still thudded far more quickly than it had any right to. I felt somehow exhilarated, thrilled; and had a big grin on my face as I grabbed Inigo and told him that drinks were on me.


	21. A Friend Called Sam

The Loredas after our trip to Dawnstar I was bundled up in my apartment, practicing. Master Six-Fingers had set me a few pieces from Hammerfell to learn at the end of my last lesson. She’d told me to treat them more as technical exercises than anything else — that the Redguard approach to music was worlds away from that of the other races of Men, and it was unlikely that I’d ever be able to play them how they were ‘meant’ to be played. Nevertheless, I should study them; it would be good for my technique and musicality to be pushed outside my comfort zone.

I had thrown myself into the first of the compositions with gusto, looking forward to proving her wrong — but Mara’s mercy, had I been the one to eat my words instead. Everything about it was unfamiliar. If Cyrodiilic music was a cousin to High Rock’s, playing the music of Hammerfell was like meeting a stranger for the first time. The harmonic language was completely different, the melodies were constructed in ways which made no sense to me, and the rhythms! I simply couldn’t wrap my head, or my fingers, around them.

And so I had taken the opportunity presented by Loredas, a day I had entirely free, to try and make some real headway. Even after an hour’s solid work I was still getting nowhere except into a towering temper, and my mood was not at all improved when I was interrupted by a loud knocking. I wrenched open the front door.

“What?” I snarled. “I told you not to — oh, you’re not Inigo.”

It was, in fact, the little runner-boy whose presence I was beginning to associate with nasty occurrences in my immediate future. He looked very out of breath, and chilled to the bone besides — it was a truly cold and miserable day outside.

“Um, no. I’m not. Sorry.” He twisted his hands. “Mister Viarmo says you were meant to be at the festival an hour ago.”

I stared at him blankly. “What festival?”

“Y’know. The burning one.”

“But … today’s Loredas.”

“Yeah?”

“The festival is on _Sundas_.”

“Um. It’s on now.” He twisted his hands some more. “Sorry,” he repeated.

I gripped the doorframe, leaning over the small boy. “Sorry? _Sorry_? It’s that Divines-cursed Viarmo who should be sorry!” I said, breathing heavily. “You would think, wouldn’t you, that someone who’s in charge of running an institute of _tuition_ , where _timetables_ and _schedules_ are presumably rather important, would be well used to _running things to a schedule_ , right?”

“Um —”

“— But _nooo_ , Headmaster Viarmo the All-Important Mer does things on _his_ time and to _his_ convenience and fie to anyone else’s plans and priorities!”

“Um, miss —”

But by then I had worked up a full head of steam, and ranted on. “Does he really think that we’re all just waiting around for his summons? That we haven’t got anything better — yes, _what_?” For the boy was tugging at my sleeve.

“Er … can I go now? I was meant to come straight back …”

“Yes, fine, go,” I snapped. “Tell Viarmo I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I stormed around the apartment, snatching up a coat and a scarf, and nudged a sleeping Meeko in the ribs. “Get up, boy. You’re coming too. We can suffer Viarmo’s stupid obsession together.”

This was just like Viarmo. What did he care if he interrupted my practice? Or anyone else’s weekend plans? This stupid festival was such a waste of time, anyway. Why in Oblivion was it still happening _weekly_? I glanced at my lute, resting carelessly on the bed, then turned my back on it and headed for the door.

“Sorry, Headmaster, my lute’s with Bran for re-stringing,” I muttered under my breath as I pulled the door shut. Mara’s mercy, it was _cold_. “If I’d known the festival was going to be on Loredas this week, perhaps I could have left it with him a different day.”

Fat chance I was going to play my lute outside in this weather, anyway. Did he really intend to keep running this festival every week through the heart of winter? And if he was, could he not at least have the common decency to keep the say of the week consistent?

* * *

To my surprise, the inhabitants of Solitude didn’t seem to be tiring of the Burning of King Olaf Festival yet, though the bards certainly were. Master Ateia was tapping her foot and shooting glances towards the College that plainly said she had more important things to do, and Master Gemaine wasn’t even pretending to pay attention, but sitting in a back corner scribbling in a notebook. Viarmo, of course, was in his element; blissfully oblivious to the long-suffering looks his bards were giving him. The weather became worse and worse too as the day wore on, and I spitefully considered magically summoning Inigo from whatever warm place he’d holed up in to share in my misery.

After the effigy had been lit and the formal part of the festival was over, I sloped over to where Ataf was warming himself by the fire-pit. Evette San had sensibly set up her stall next to the fire too, and, catching my mood, brought me a warmed mug of her spiced wine.

“You must have been sent by the Divines themselves,” I groaned, clutching the mug with both hands. “Thank you, Evette.”

“Don’t mention it,” she smiled, and returned to her cauldron to ladle a mugful for a very irritable-looking Master Ateia.

“How do you do that?” sighed Ataf.

“Do what?” I took a gulp of my wine, not caring that it scalded my throat on the way down. I wanted to get as much warmth into me as possible, as quickly as possible.

“Get everyone to like you like that. You’ve barely been in Solitude a season and you’re already friends with, well, _everyone_.”

“Not everyone. Fironet still isn’t talking to me, remember? And Aia isn’t exactly fond of me, either.”

“Yes, well, Aia doesn’t really like anybody very much,” Ataf said, fidgeting. “And I don’t think that disproves my point, anyway. Two people in the whole city? I wish I could be like that.”

I peered at him over my wine. “Where’s this coming from, Ataf? You’re hardly mister unpopularity yourself. I haven’t met a single person who doesn’t have a good thing to say about you. Except Aia I suppose, but we’ve already established that she’s, well, _Aia_.”

I glared at the awful woman across the courtyard. She was currently making small talk with Erikur, one of Elisif’s thanes. The whole College was painfully aware of her aspirations to higher social status. Well, they were more than welcome to one another. Thane Erikur I knew by reputation to be one of the slimiest, cruellest and most venomous people in the city; and Aia … it was perhaps enough to say that her personality did not match her voice. To be frank, I was surprised she was able to tear herself away from a mirror long enough to flatter anyone else.

Ataf was not looking at Aia, however, but at Illdi, who was lining up for some food. There was open longing writ on his face, along with a kind of puppyish adoration and helplessness.

Ah. So it was not _everyone_ Ataf wanted to like him, but one person in particular.

I had been watching Ataf’s clumsy not-quite-courtship of Illdi from my very first day at the College. It was plain to everyone that he was carrying a torch the size of a building — except to Illdi herself. Despite Ataf continuously trailing after her like a lost little dog, she insisted that his affection was purely brotherly; that he was just naturally kind and sweet-natured. Which was true. But he was also madly in love.

“Just _talk_ to her, Ataf,” I said. “Tell her how you feel.”

He turned to me, looking miserable. “I don’t know how. And what if she doesn’t feel the same way? She’s older than me, a better musician … what do I even have to offer her?”

“Your kindness, your humour — and you write better poems than anyone else in the College,” I said, thinking with a smile of Calcelmo. “Nobody ever fell in love without being a little bit brave,” I added.

“I suppose. But there’s still … _her_.”

Illdi had just been joined by Aia, Erikur having set off towards the Blue Palace. I narrowed my eyes. As if it weren’t bad enough that Aia was besotted with herself and her own voice, and thought herself better than everyone around her, she was also petty and cruel to boot. She knew about Ataf’s infatuation, of course, and was incredibly unkind about it to Ataf and Illdi both. She would make all kinds of cutting remarks, usually not directly _to_ either one of them, but at times when she knew one or the other was in earshot.

The worst of it was that while she was openly disdainful of Ataf, she pretended to be Illdi’s friend; and Illdi — sweet, provincial Illdi whose parents kept bees — was so pathetically pleased to have someone like _Aia_ paying attention to her that she allowed her ‘friend’ to treat her however she liked.

Aia snaked a possessive arm around Illdi’s waist. “Illdi, darling, would you believe that Erikur — silly me, I mean _Thane_ Erikur — has invited me to dinner next weekend, at the Blue Palace?”

“That’s wonderful, Aia! How lovely for you!”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” she said loftily. “We really must find a way to introduce you to some of the men up there. Such a cut above all the _boys_ here at the College. They have decorum — manners — and they know how to treat one like a _lady_.” She shot a nasty look over her shoulder at me and Ataf. Ataf’s face reddened, and his fingers tightened on his mug. “What do you say, Illdi? Wouldn’t you like that?”

“Um … I suppose that sounds … nice …” She had caught the direction of Aia’s gaze, and was glancing hesitantly towards Ataf, whose face was a thundercloud.

“Ignore her,” I muttered. “Don’t rise. Look — let’s head over to the Skeever. It’ll be warm, and Inigo will be there. We can have a few drinks before my set tonight. It’ll be fun.”

“Sure,” he said miserably. Illdi had wandered off arm in arm with Aia to talk to Jorn. “It can hardly be worse than this.”

We returned our mugs to Evette and headed towards the Skeever, hugging ourselves against the biting cold while Meeko snapped at snowflakes. I didn’t know what to do. As an Agent of Mara, surely this was a situation under my purview? I hated to see my two friends being so deftly manipulated by that … _witch_. If only Ataf could find the confidence to tell Illdi how he felt — I was sure I sensed something on her end, too, and thought that though too shy to make a move herself, she might respond favourably to an advance from Ataf. But it was a difficult area for a young man to navigate at the best of times, and stupid Aia was making it all a thousand times harder.

“How are your classes going, by the way?” Ataf said. “What’s Master Six-Fingers like one on one? Is she just as mean?”

“She’s not mean, not really. She just expects a lot. She wants us all to be the best musicians we can be. For example, she’s got me working on these pieces from Hammerfell, to try and stretch me … Wait!” A sudden idea had struck, a possible solution both to Ataf’s problem and my own. “Ataf. You said your father taught you, right? And your family’s from Hammerfell?”

“Yes?”

“Well, do you understand Redguard music? I just can’t get my head around it.”

“I suppose I do. It’s what I grew up with. It feels far more natural to me than what Master Six-Fingers has us learning, anyway.” He wrinkled his nose.

“Could you — teach me? Help me with these pieces? And perhaps in return I could help you with your lute technique?”

Ataf’s eyes lit up. “Yes! That would be perfect! Are — are you sure? I don’t think I’d make a very good teacher …”

I grinned at him. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. I’ve never taught either. It’ll be … a cultural exchange, let’s say.”

“Perfect,” he said. And just like that, his bad mood was shucked like a cornhusk.

A warm glow pulsed within me as we walked the rest of the way to the Skeever; a pleasant balm against the icy weather. While I was desperately glad of any help I could get with those Divines-cursed Hammerfell compositions, what was more important was that hopefully working together — Ataf helping me, and me helping him — would win the boy some much-needed self confidence. If nothing else, it would give us more time together during which I could talk him into confessing his feelings to Illdi, or if all else failed, more time for us to plot revenge on Aia.

* * *

Inigo was indeed at the Skeever, but he was not alone. An unfamiliar man shared his table — a Breton, I thought, dark-haired and merry-faced. They seemed to have already finished a bottle of spiced wine between them, and were just uncorking a second.

As Ataf closed the door behind us I waved to Corpulus behind the bar, and Minette, who was helping him put away some glasses. Corpulus called a cheery greeting, and though Minette didn’t, she held my eyes for a moment and nodded before looking away. It was progress, at least.

Inigo swivelled around in his seat at Corpulus’ wave, and broke into a broad smile. “Kirilee! And Ataf! It is good to see you both. How was the festival? The weather is very nice today, yes?”

“Shut up,” I said, though I was smiling myself. “It was rubbish. Which you already knew, otherwise you’d have been there yourself stuffing your face with free sweetrolls. Who’s your friend?”

The man stood up, having finished pouring his wine, and extended a hand. “Samuel Guevenne.” His own toothy grin was the broadest of all, and his eyes twinkled merrily. “But my friends call me Sam.”

“Hello, Sam,” I said, shaking his hand. Ataf introduced himself too, and we took a seat as Inigo collected an extra pair of goblets from the bar and filled them to the brim.

“What brings you to Solitude, Master Guevenne?” Ataf asked politely.

“Sam, please. And what else, but a good time?” He spread his arms wide. “This is a city of music! Life! Laughter! I plan to indulge in it all — and share it with the new friends I’ll meet, of course. For where’s the fun in enjoying life’s pleasures alone?”

“This is very true,” Inigo said. “And you have certainly come to the right place. Kirilee and Ataf are both students at the Bards’ College. They are both very good at music, and at having a good time!”

Sam laced his fingers together, then rested his elbows on the table as he leaned towards us. He looked hungry; excited. “Please. Do tell me more.”

As we talked and laughed with our new acquaintance I found myself liking him very much. He was a font of merriment and good cheer, matching even Inigo for wit and humour; there was a story for every occasion, a quip for every circumstance, a smile and a laugh ready at a moment’s notice. Friendliness and lust for life rolled off him, and his dark eyes never stopped laughing. By the time my goblet was half emptied I felt as though we’d been friends for years, and I had forgotten all about the annoyance of the Burning of King Olaf Festival, as well as my plans to spend the day practicing.

Other College students trickled into the inn over the course of the afternoon and evening, including, eventually, Illdi and Aia. Illdi gave our table a little smile and wave, then followed Aia to the chairs by the fire, where they were soon chatting together — or rather, Aia was talking, and Illdi was nodding a lot. Ataf, who had been telling us about his latest visit to Hammerfell with his family, immediately lapsed into a broody silence.

Sam looked from Ataf to the pair of women. His eyebrows twitched upwards for a moment, then his face broke into a wicked grin.

“Which one?” he asked Ataf.

Ataf turned very red. “I-I don’t know what you mean,” he stammered.

“Don’t be coy, kid. We’re all friends here. Which one?”

“… Illdi,” Ataf muttered, turning if possible even redder.

“The taller one,” I said to Sam, in response to his questioning look. “Our Ataf has been sweet on her for a while, now.”

“And doth the lovely doe return our young buck’s affections?” Sam was grinning so broadly I half expected his mouth to fall off his face.

“… No.”

“You don’t know that, Ataf!” I scolded him. I turned back to Sam. “He hasn’t told her yet.” I sketched out the situation for Sam and Inigo, including Aia’s involvement. Ataf’s eyes remained fixed on the table as we talked.

“Ha! Is that all?” Sam said, once I had finished. “We’ll have this young buck rutting in no time. You’re lucky you met me, kid.” He slapped Ataf on the back, who had choked on the last of his wine at the word ‘rutting’.

“Sam!” I said, scandalised, but Inigo was roaring with laughter. Sam winked at me.

“I apologise. I’ll make sure to keep my subject matter civil in the presence of such a _dignified_ lady.” He stood up, and gave me a mock bow. “Oh — but … remind me again, _how_ many boys was it you said you kissed that Lover’s Day in Camlorn?” he added, tapping his chin and feigning forgetfulness.

“Fine,” I laughed, “I see your point. Where are you going?” For Sam had disentangled his legs from the bench, and was heading towards the bar.

He pointed at our empty goblets, and the empty bottle. “Another round, of course. On me. We’ll need it, to help young Ataf woo his ladylove.”

“Actually — no more for me, thanks.”

“What do you mean?” Inigo looked shocked. “In all the time I have known you, you have never turned down a goblet of wine!”

“Well … you know, the whole …” I gestured towards my heart, then his, not wanting to announce to the whole inn that I was a Divine’s Chosen. “I just think I ought to be more … responsible, you know. Temperate.”

Inigo shrugged, but Sam leaned bodily across the table. “Responsible? Temperate? Boring, more like! Come, friend. Join us. Let’s drink to friendship, and to our young buck’s luck, and virility — after all, everyone knows it’s easier to plan for love with a bit of wine in your belly! What’s the harm in just one more drink?”

I felt my resolve melt away as he spoke. Another moment of hesitation, then:

“Oh, go on, then,” I said with a grin. “Just one more drink.” He was right, after all — what was the harm?

* * *

“Hnnnrg,” I groaned the next morning. I rolled over, and clamped my pillow over my head. When had the sunlight become so _bright_ , and painful?

A few moments later I felt the pillow being dragged away, and that horrible too-bright morning light assaulted my senses once more. Or was it afternoon light? I squinted at the window. How late had I slept?

I glared at Meeko, who had my pillow between his jaws and was looking very pleased with himself.

“Give that back.”

He wagged his tail, and leapt lightly off the bed, taking my pillow with him. Stupid dog.

I dragged myself out of bed too, groaning and moaning the whole time. As I ran my bath I peered out the window. It was indeed afternoon. Nearly my whole weekend was already gone, and I’d barely touched my lute. I groaned again.

Somehow, the previous day, one drink had turned into several as we planned increasingly elaborate ways both for Ataf to confess his feelings to Illdi and to get back at Aia. I had stopped drinking only when I had needed to go fetch my lute for my evening’s (somewhat drunken) performance, and had then picked right back up afterwards. We had all been in the common room until Corpulus had more or less thrown us out in the early hours of the morning.

I clutched at my pounding head. This was my own fault. I’d just have to make up for it the rest of the day by practicing extra hard. At least it was my night off at the Skeever — I could have the whole rest of the day, uninterrupted, to catch up on my work.

Except …

My eyes moved to the kitchen. I had some bread and butter, which I could have for … breakfast, I supposed, late as it was; but nothing for supper. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to duck down to the Skeever later just for a _meal_? Besides which, Sam was a guest in the city, and it would be rude not to at least spend a _little_ time with him.

I hummed happily as I soaked in my bath. Yes. This day could still be salvaged. A bath, some breakfast, then practice. Supper at the Skeever with Inigo and Sam, then straight back home for more practice. And no more than one goblet of wine with my meal. _One_.

* * *

The next morning I woke up hung over, sleep deprived, and already late for my lesson with Viarmo.

Things seemed set to get even worse when I finally arrived, panting an apology, and Viarmo launched into one of his long-winded speeches about music-magic and responsibility. It was a sure-fire sign that I was about to sit through an endless, dull treatise in history and theory — something I was particularly uninterested in when I was already on the verge of falling asleep. Was this perhaps his own manner of payback for my having actually written my report on Dawnstar and Jarl Skald in the form of a horrifically torturous piece of Altmer-style verse?

I closed my eyes against the stabbing pain of wakefulness. I couldn’t believe I’d gotten drunk _again_. I almost never drank to excess — and here I was, in my cups two nights running. At least the company had been good. Sam had decided to reenact a one-man play the previous night, about a goat and a giant who had fallen in love. The memory brought a brief smile to my lips as I massaged temples, but I was startled back to the present when I realised Viarmo was saying my name.

“Kirilee. Kirilee! Are you listening?”

“Hnng?”

“I said, do you think you’re ready?”

“Ready for what?”

Viarmo breathed in then out slowly; a pained, long-suffering sigh.

“I _said_ , Melodies are far more complex than Tunes, and more difficult than any magic you’ve learned thus far. Are you ready to _apply yourself_ to learning them?”

“Oh! Yes, of course. Sorry. I didn’t sleep much.” This was hardly what I’d expected, but it was a welcome surprise. Personally, I’d thought I was ready to move on to more complex material for at least the past fortnight.

“Hmph. Well, take these two to start. A Melody of Endurance and a Melody of Healing. See if you can make some headway with them by tomorrow. You’re dismissed — you’ll need all your wits about you for these, I don’t want to waste my time when you’re barely paying attention.” He handed me two spell tomes, rather thicker than I was used to, then smirked. “Get some sleep. You’ll need it.”

I sniffed and rolled my eyes at the abrupt dismissal, though only once the door had shut behind me. Instead of heading home, however, I made my way to the College’s common room to wait for Ataf, who would be meeting me soon for our first ‘cultural exchange’ session. Choosing an armchair in a dark corner, I plopped into it and flicked through the Melody of Endurance tome. It certainly was complex — perhaps Viarmo had been right to forewarn me.

My mind kept sliding away from the long strings of forms, however, and returning to the Headmaster himself. I’d had plenty of time to think since returning from Dawnstar. It was hard to deny that I was beginning to enjoy the heady rush of political intrigue, and the strange sense of power that came from dealing in secrets. I was still worried about whether it was an appropriate endeavour for me to get mixed up in, as a Chosen of Mara … but even more, one clawing question kept bothering me. Could I trust Viarmo? I was growing to like and respect him, despite my annoyance at his scheduling habits, but there was still so much about him that remained a mystery. He was a strange man; I felt like each time I peeled off a layer of understanding it just revealed another puzzle to be solved. Who was he, really? And did he have my best interests at heart?

My ruminations were finally interrupted by Ataf’s cheery greeting. I winced. Had his voice always been so loud?

“Ready for our cultural exchange?” he said, disgustingly chipper.

I regarded him warily. “Ataf. Why are you carrying a pair of drums?”

He chuckled. “Ah, friend, let’s go find a practice room and you’ll find out.”

We wound through the College’s twisting corridors, looking for an empty practice room. Someone was practicing the flute very loudly. It sounded as though they were torturing some poor hapless rodent. I winced, and wondered whether it was Jorn doing the torturing.

Eventually we found a room that was free, and squeezed ourselves in. Ataf handed me a drum. I furrowed my brow.

“Ataf, my pieces are for _lute_.”

“I know. But in Hammerfell, the core of _all_ music is the rhythm of the drums. There’s always a drumbeat. Even when a piece is for solo lute — although actually, we don’t really use the lute at all, the instrument those works would have been written for is closer to a zither — but anyway, there’s still an implied drumbeat behind it. It’s like a heartbeat, I guess.”

“So … you’re saying that before I can learn my pieces on the lute, you’re going to make me bang on a drum.”

“Yep,” Ataf said happily. “For the next hour or so. And then probably every time we do this for the next couple of weeks, at least.”

I glanced uncertainly at the drum in my hands. The drum was my weakest of the standard bardic instruments. I didn’t even know what this type was called. Was this exactly why Master Six-Fingers had chosen this style of music for me to study?

“Cheer up, Kirilee. Once you’ve got the rhythms sorted you’ll be set. It’s not that hard, really.”

I gritted my teeth. This would not do my hangover any favours. Well, at least it would hopefully be a sound enough deterrent to prevent me from drinking too much again tonight.

“Right,” Ataf said, after I had nodded miserably that I was ready. “I’ll play a rhythm, then you copy it back to me. We’ll start with something simple.”

Ataf may have thought it simple, but to me even the most basic Redguard rhythmic patterns were strange and unfamiliar. The pounding headache certainly didn’t help matters, either; especially as it didn’t have the good manners to at least pulse in time with our drumming. Nevertheless, while I struggled with the complex rhythms that required me to break my brain into half a dozen pieces even to follow, let alone play, I couldn’t deny that it was also very … fun. There was an exciting energy that came from the intertwining rhythms of Redguard drumming. It was as though the drums were dancing with each other — or even with themselves, sometimes.

After an hour we swapped, and helping Ataf battle with lute technical work that was for me very simple did much to restore my confidence in my musical abilities. “I suppose it’s just a case of what’s familiar,” I remarked to Ataf as we wandered out of the College together around lunchtime.

“I guess so,” said Ataf, though he didn’t seem to be listening. Aia had just disappeared up the stairs behind us, deep in conversation with Pantea Ateia. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or faintly insulted that she hadn’t even acknowledged our presence as she’d swept past, though Master Ateia had given us a smile and a nod.

“Do you think Illdi would take more notice of me if I were having private lessons too?” Ataf asked suddenly.

“I don’t think that’s the sort of thing that matters to her,” I said. “Weren’t you listening to Sam? Just be yourself, Ataf. You’re a kind and good person. That’s more valuable than any amount of musical skill, especially to someone like Illdi.” I gave him an encouraging smile. He only managed a grimace in return. “Or I suppose we could always go with Inigo’s suggestion and fill Aia’s room with spiders.”

Ataf laughed. “There is always that.”

“Anyway though, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a lot of work to do. But thank you for this — it was really helpful. We’ll do it again soon?”

“Sure, Kirilee. Sounds good.” He managed a genuine smile this time. “Thanks to you too. I’ll see you at the Skeever tonight? I told Sam I’d meet him there. Nice chap, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is. And I’ll be there, I’ve got to perform.”

And _just_ to perform, I told myself sternly as I waved goodbye to Ataf. I would perform, and I would go straight home, and get a good night’s sleep. With my new Melodies on top of everything else I really couldn’t afford another night like the last two — no matter how much a part of me might long to forget all about my responsibilities, and to simply lose myself in wine and friendship.

* * *

That night it happened again, and worse than ever before. Afterwards I couldn’t quite remember how — I had been fully resolved to finish my set and go home, but instead had somehow found myself ordering a round for the whole inn. Things got a bit blurry after that. I remembered drinking a whole bottle of Evette’s spiced wine, and getting up on a table to loudly proclaim to everyone that it was the Nectar of the Divines, and anyone who claimed otherwise was a heretic. I remembered Inigo reading aloud from a book he’d written called _Inigo the Brave_ to a flushed and bright-eyed Minette, awake long past her bedtime. I remembered Fironet actually getting up to sing, but Lisette being so caught up in _Ragnar the Red_ that the two were singing at the same time; half the inn singing along with one, half with the other. I remembered Corpulus drinking too, though he _never_ indulged normally, and becoming increasingly red-faced and merry. I remembered Sam’s face, clearer than any other.

It was the strangest thing: never had so many people been so drunk in the Winking Skeever at once, and yet not a single fight broke out, not a single mug was overturned or a rough word said. The whole city’s populace was as carefree and jolly as I’d ever seen them.

Eventually everyone either stumbled home or fell asleep where they sat. I actually _walked_ up the battlements for the first time in weeks, not trusting myself to cast Recall accurately enough to ensure I ended up at home and not in the middle of the river. I collapsed onto the bed fully clothed, and woke up with the worst hangover of my entire life.

To make matters worse, I had bad news for Viarmo. He hadn’t been exaggerating about the complexity of my new spell-songs: I had spent the whole previous afternoon working on them, feeling as though I was trying to drag my mind through a vast field of sticky mud. While I’d made some headway with Endurance, when it came to Healing I may as well have been trying to balance on one ear while singing in counterpoint with myself and playing the lute one-handed. It made Redguard music seem like the simplest thing in the world. My skill with Restoration magic was simply not good enough, and I didn’t think the Melody was within my power to master.

I slouched off to the College, apprehensive at how Viarmo would react to my lack of success. To my surprise, however, he didn’t seem bothered at all.

“Of course you’re struggling, girl. I told you this is magic more complex than anything you’ve attempted before. What, did you expect to just pick it up overnight?”

I flushed.

“I haven’t got time to teach you Restoration though, and it’s really not my area of specialty, in any case. Hmm … I know.” He grabbed a scrap of paper and scribbled for a few seconds. “You’ve been to Whiterun, yes? Good. Go to the Temple of Kynareth. Give this to the priestess there. Name of Danica Pure-Spring. She’s the best damn healer I know, and a pretty good teacher, from what I’ve heard. She should be able to bring you up to scratch.”

I nodded, and took the note he handed me. “I’ve got a Mark set there, so I should be able to pop down and back today.”

He gave a small grunt. “You can maintain multiple Marks?” I nodded again. “Hmph. Good for you. Well, if you can bring your Restoration up to that level you’ll make a fine music-mage indeed. Off with you, then.”

“Yes, sir.” I bobbed my head, smiling at the rare praise, and made for the door.

“Oh, and Kirilee?”

“Yes, Headmaster?”

“Keep working at Endurance. Maybe lay off the soss and you’ll have better luck.”

I flushed. “… Yes, sir.”

I pulled the door closed and hurried off to find Inigo, burning with shame. Viarmo was right. I’d been acting incredibly irresponsibly. Well, I would just have to work harder; starting with what would hopefully be a pleasant afternoon’s jaunt to Whiterun — after a trip to Angeline’s Aromatics to beg for her strongest hangover cure.


	22. Change

Danica Pure-Spring, Priestess of Kynareth, looked as tired and harried as I had ever seen her. Instead of its usual sunlight and stillness the Temple of Kynareth was full to brimming with the soft mutterings, groans and whimpers of supplicants needing healing — mostly soldiers and refugees, I thought, based on the haircuts and outfits. It was a grim reminder of the realities of the war, which were all too easy to forget while cloistered away in Solitude. I’d had to wait an hour to see the priestess, and when she finally hurried over to where I sat on a mosaic-ornamented stone bench, she was plainly near the end of her strength.

Her face fell when she read Viarmo’s note. “I’m terribly sorry, dear, but I don’t think I can help you. Ordinarily I’d be happy to train a budding new healer, but, well —” She gestured at the sick and wounded. “I can barely keep up. It might be different, if only …”

“If only what?” I asked, trying to suppress a rush of disappointment.

She looked around the temple once more, then sighed. “Follow me. I have a pressing need to be outside, and feel the fresh air on my skin.”

She led me from the temple at a fast walk — I nearly had to jog to keep up. Outside, she stopped in front of the enormous dead tree filling the square in front of the temple. It contrasted starkly with Whiterun’s orderly beauty, and I had often wondered about why it hadn’t been cut down and replaced, until Hulda at the Bannered Mare had told me it was sacred. Now, examining it closely for the first time, I was starting to get a sense of what she meant. I almost thought I could feel … something … from the tree, and its huge trunk — so large it would have taken half a dozen men touching fingers to encircle it — held my gaze as Mother Pure-Spring spoke..

“This is the Gildergreen, as I’m sure you know,” she said. “Though it barely deserves that name now, blasphemous as it is to say. It was planted as a seedling in the early years of Whiterun. Disciples of Kynareth could sense something holy in it, and traveled far to hear the winds of the Goddess in its branches. It was they who built the temple.”

I glanced up at the bare branches spreading above us. “What happened to it?”

“A lightning strike. Months ago, now. I had hoped it would renew itself — it always has, in the past — but this time I waited in vain. Finally I recognised that it would not recover without help. But I cannot spare the time to restore the tree … partly because, without it, it is difficult to bring in acolytes and healers to help me in the temple. They whisper that this temple, and Whiterun, are no longer blessed by Kynareth. It is an awful stalemate.” She placed a hand tenderly on the trunk, like a parent laying a reassuring hand on a sick child’s brow. “The Gildergreen is not just a tree. In these times more than ever we need Kynareth’s blessings, and a living tree to be Her symbol.”

“How could the Gildergreen be restored? Could I help?” I felt stupid even as the words slipped from my lips. What a presumptuous offer — what could I possibly do that the priestess couldn’t? I’d come to her precisely _because_ I was a deficient healer.

Mother Pure-Spring laughed like a burbling brook, and I felt a flush of shame creeping into my cheeks, until I realised that her smile was fond rather than derisive. “That’s a very kind offer, dear. But I’m afraid it’s not so simple.” She stroked the Gildergreen’s dry trunk. “Trees like this never really die — they only slumber. I think it could be woken with some sap from the parent tree. But the Eldergleam is old; older than metal, from a time before the mortal races first walked the face of Nirn. No regular implement could pierce its bark.”

“But then, how —”

“Hush, child. I’m getting there. This is where the problem lies — I have heard stories of an ancient dagger, called Nettlebane. Supposedly it is used by hagravens, to sacrifice spriggans for their unholy magics. In my research it is the only thing I’ve found which might work. I’ve even located the coven of hags which have the dagger, I think … but, well, you know the reputation of hagravens, dear, I’m sure. I certainly can’t go retrieve it myself, and no mercenary to pass through the city will take the job.”

I gulped. Now I understood why she had so casually dismissed my offer. How could I — young, untrained, a _musician_ — hope to battle through a den of nightmares to retrieve an ancient weapon of legend? It was insane. I’d just have to find a Restoration teacher elsewhere.

And yet …

My eyes moved once again to the great, sad tree. I let my fingers brush the gnarled bark. Something stirred within me — a tugging at my heart; a brief flare of Lady Mara’s strengthening warmth. I turned to the priestess. She was blinking at me in shock.

“You felt that, then?”

“Yes, child … though I should have seen it straight away. I would have, had I not been so distracted by the burdens of the temple. You, too, are a servant of the Divines.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” I touched my breast. “Mother Mara has claimed me as Her own. And … I think She wants me to help you with this. It feels … important.”

Mother Pure-Spring inclined her head. “It shames me to admit that I feel some relief to hear you speak this. I cannot help but feel I am sending you to your doom. And yet, if the Gildergreen could be restored …” She fixed me with her pale blue eyes, clear as Kynareth’s open sky. “You are certain of this?”

I nodded.

“Then … follow me.” She sighed heavily. “I will draw you a map. The hagravens’ nest is in a place called Orphan Rock — in the mountains behind Helgen.”

* * *

We rose before dawn. I still had a splitting headache — I’d had to Recall home to let Corpulus know I’d be away for a day or two, then back to Whiterun soon after, and three Recalls in the space of an afternoon was a sure way to set my head pounding. At least it wasn’t a hangover this time, I thought miserably, as we clambered onto a waiting carriage in the eerie half-light. I wondered whether Sam was still in Solitude. Despite how much I seemed to drink to excess whenever he was around, I rather liked the man, and hoped he would be staying in the city for some time yet.

By the time the sun was fully above the horizon the carriage had reached the tranquil village of Riverwood. We passed through without remark, watching the villagers already hard at work at the sawmill or smithy or encircling farms, then trundled through the lush riparian vegetation edging the village’s namesake river until we reached the even smaller hamlet of Oakwood. Here we disembarked. The carriage would continue west then south to Falkreath, while we would make the climb to the south, and to Helgen. Helgen itself used to be on this particular route, the driver had told us … but not for a few months, now.

The temperature dropped rapidly as we approached the town, but the exertion kept us warm enough that we both loosened our coats and were panting slightly — in my case, more than slightly — by the time the walls came into view. I heard a sharp intake of breath from my right.

“It is true. I did not wish to believe it.”

I stopped short, horrified. I, too, had heard the rumours Helgen had been razed to the ground, repeated just a few hours earlier by our carriage driver, but seeing the evidence of it was far worse than I could have imagined. The town’s low walls were more or less intact, but blackened and scorched. Past them were the ruins of what had once been a thriving mountain community: now nothing more than a disorganised array of half-collapsed stone structures and charred wood, rotting in the cold air. Not a single house seemed untouched. The town was dead.

“What could possibly have happened to cause … this?” My eyes were drawn painfully from one ruin to another. I thought I spotted some shards of white poking out from the corner of one house, and squeezed them shut.

“I heard it was attacked by a dragon,” Inigo said. His voice was level, but I heard him swallow sharply.

“Don’t be stupid. Dragons aren’t real. It must have been the Stormcloaks. When they rescued Ulfric Stormcloak from the execution.”

“But then why are the walls burned from the _top_?”

I ignored him, and pushed my way through the grass to the side of the path. Regardless of what had happened to Helgen, I intended to give it a wide berth.

* * *

I could feel the place long before we could see it. As we travelled through the silent pine forest waves of nausea began to ripple through my stomach, from what I could only describe to Inigo as an awful, sickly, sharp-sweet stench assaulting my magical senses. Inigo, with his lack of magical aptitude, felt nothing. I envied him then, my stomach turning ever more forcefully as we approached the source of some twisted power. It was only lucky that before heading into the forest we had stopped for a rest at the turnoff Mother Pure-Spring had marked on my map, and I had there cast a few spell-songs with the cheap practice lute I had bought. I didn’t think I could have concentrated well enough any more to cast the complex magic.

Inigo held out a hand to stop me. “This is close enough, I think.” I nodded, teeth clenched.

As one, we reached into our pockets and pulled out the tiny stoppered bottles which had taken the majority of my saved coin the previous afternoon. “If only I could do this by magic, too,” I murmured to Inigo, forcing a smile. “But that’s what I get for not touching the Illusion school, I suppose.”

I unstoppered the vial, and lifted it to my lips. “Wait!” Inigo whispered. “Meeko first.”

“Of course.” I hadn’t been thinking clearly, distracted by my heaving stomach. I knelt, and held out the vial to Meeko. “Open wide, boy.” He looked at the bottle uncertainly, then lifted his eyes to mine and opened his mouth. Not for the first time I wondered at his intelligence.

I dribbled the silvery potion onto his tongue. He swallowed, shook himself, then … vanished. I breathed a relieved sigh. Angeline Morraud, Solitude’s apothecary, hadn’t been sure invisibility potion would work on dogs.

Meeko let out a small whine. “Do not worry, my friend,” Inigo said, reaching down and fumbling through the air until he found Meeko’s invisible back. “You will be back to your handsome self very soon. Remember to be very quiet, yes?” Meeko whuffed softly.

A second vial was ready and unstoppered in my hand. I was very nervous now, my stomach twisting not just from the sickening magical aura, but also a mounting anxiety. Our plan suddenly seemed hopelessly flimsy. Inigo gave me an encouraging smile, however, and after grasping each other’s free hands we both emptied our tiny bottles of invisibility potion in one gulp.

I shivered as I swallowed — the potion felt like ice, both as it slid down my throat, then as the magical effect worked its way through my veins. It was a wholly disconcerting feeling, to be able to feel myself, to know I was holding my trembling hand in front of my face, but not to be able to see it. A low voice came from my left. “You are ready?”

I nodded, then remembered Inigo couldn’t see me. “Yes. Let’s get going.”

I only hoped the potions would last long enough. They had been unbelievably expensive, and we’d only been able to afford a tiny quantity each. If only I hadn’t had to buy a new lute, as well … but there wasn’t a chance in Mundus or Aetherius I would risk bringing my precious Montaigne on this outing. Angeline had assured us we should have enough for a solid twenty minutes of invisibility — as long as we remained calm so as not to metabolise the potions too quickly. I tried to slow my breathing and my racing heart as we crept through the forest.

The feeling of sickness became worse and worse, and I had to stop several times to let my dizziness and nausea clear. It was agonising. I chafed at the slow pace, yet knew moving more quickly would risk detection; and despite being painfully aware that worrying about whether the potion would last would become a self-fulfilling prophecy, I couldn’t calm my fluttering nerves. My hand was sweaty in Inigo’s furred palm. He gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Finally, we saw Orphan Rock. A lone crag of solid basalt, it erupted from the forest like an ugly scar, a fallen tree connecting it to the path on which we now stood. Silhouetted against the sky were four skeletal figures. I stopped and stared in horror. At this distance it was difficult to make out details, but the shapes I could see looked … _wrong_. An unholy union of woman and bird, with too-long, too-thin fingers and limbs, and legs that bent in ways no mortal’s ever should.

Hagravens.

Inigo tugged on my hand, pulling me towards the fallen tree bridge. I followed.

I did my best to keep my footsteps quiet as I stumbled after Inigo, but realised I perhaps wasn’t doing a very good job of it when I heard his sword loosen in its scabbard. My heart instantly raced quicker — had Inigo forgotten what Angeline had said? Any vigorous exertion, like wielding a weapon, would burn through the potion in mere instants! I squeezed his hand tightly, willing him to understand; but he just squeezed back, presumably thinking I sought comfort.

I breathed deeply, trying to still myself. As long as we didn’t make a mistake it wouldn’t matter if Inigo’s sword was loose in its scabbard.

By the time we reached the rock itself the nausea was almost unbearable. I felt weak and dizzy, and doubled over to clutch my stomach with my free hand. We were close enough now to see the hagravens in detail, but after one quick glance to check that they hadn’t noticed us I looked away. The sickening fusion of feather and flesh only turned my stomach further. Luckily, they seemed to be deeply engaged in some kind of ritual — though they stood in a ring, their eyes were shut, and they crooned and swayed in place.

My eyes fell on the space between them and I had to stifle a gasp. A black, wavy-bladed dagger rested on a plinth in the centre of the circle of hagravens. It looked strange, as though the whole surface were slick and oily, and I knew instantly both that this was Nettlebane, and that it was the source of power making me ill.

I pulled my hand from Inigo’s grasp after a final quick squeeze. I would need to be the one to retrieve the dagger — Inigo was too large to fit through the gaps between the hagravens, and there was no way to communicate to Meeko what we needed without alerting the monsters to our presence. It was the last thing I wanted to do, but what choice did I have? I willed myself to be brave. To be worthy of Mara’s favour. To make Inigo proud.

_Mother Mara, give me strength._

I snaked forward on my hands and knees. Every inch was agony; every particle of my being crying out against taking a single step towards those nightmares, towards that dagger. But I pushed myself onwards. I had to do this. Sweat beaded my brow despite the cold mountain air. My stomach clenched. I crept closer.

My breath caught as I reached the circle of chanting, crooning hagravens. They were entirely absorbed in their ritual, thank the Divines, but it took every ounce of will I had to force myself up to the small gap between two of the gruesome scaled feet. I stretched my arm out, but it was no good: the dagger was too far away. I would have to actually crawl inside the circle myself.

Inch by harrowing inch I crept forward. Sweat ran down my face, blurring my vision, but I was too petrified even to reach up and wipe the droplets from my eyes. My nerves jangled, and my insides kept involuntarily clenching. I stretched forwards — I was nearly there, just a little further …

The crooning increased in volume. My heart hammered in my ears as the hagravens let out a screech of exultation to the heavens. Another excruciating little wiggle forward — oh Divines, I really didn’t want to touch it, but I _had_ to — and my fingers closed around the hilt of the dagger.

I became visible.

Then I vomited.

So consumed was I by the raw, overwhelming, unnatural power of the dagger that I barely registered the hagravens’ ritualistic screeches turning to ones of rage. I clutched my stomach with one hand and the dagger with the other. Everything in me screamed to drop it, throw it away, far away — but the tiny remaining rational part of my mind knew I couldn’t. We needed it. So I curled in on myself, lute case a meagre protection on my back, bundling the hateful thing underneath me as a flurry of feathers and claws descended. I braced myself for the pain I knew was coming.

It never arrived.

A bloodcurdling yell rent the air, and something whistled over my head. An instant later I heard something patter onto my lute case like rain, and a dull thud on the ground next to me. I cracked my eyes open, and lifted my head just enough to peek around me. What had happened to the hagravens?

It quickly became apparent that it wasn’t so much ‘what’ as ‘who’. Inigo.

He danced between the remaining trio of bird-women, amber eyes furious, teeth bared, ebony blade gleaming in the afternoon sun. There was a savage mercilessness in the way he fought that I had never seen before, not even in Dead Men’s Respite. His blade darted forward, impaling a hagraven through the stomach, then back out again with a sickening tearing sound. She crumpled to the ground. Inigo grinned mirthlessly.

I stared, half fascinated, half horrified, the turbulent emotions suppressing even my roiling nausea and dizziness. Who was this person? I barely recognised him. This was not my gentle, funny friend, always ready with a quip or a goblet of wine. This was a whirlwind of death in purple, black and silver. For the first time I truly understood the kind of past Inigo had lived, and the person he had been before we met. Another hagraven fell, her screech lapsing into a gurgle as Inigo severed her spindly neck. I felt sickened.

The final hagraven stretched out twiglike grasping claws. “Curse you!” she shrieked. “The Hunstman take you, and chase you forever through your dreams and nightmares! May you never know a moment’s peace!”

“I have lived through the nightmare, filthy carrion-eater,” Inigo replied. His voice was level; still and cold as a wintry lake. “I have lived it, and I have conquered it. I no longer fear your curse.”

Then, quick as a heron impaling a fish, his blade stabbed forward and into her heart. Her dying scream echoed in my ears for several long seconds. I squeezed my eyes shut, but I couldn’t stop the sound.

When I opened my eyes, Inigo’s face was inches from my own. It was smiling and warm again.

“You are all right?”

I nodded, feeling queasy and pale. I pointed to where I had dropped the dagger.

“This is the thing?” he asked, looking fascinated. It was strangely jarring to see him acting so … normally, after what I had just witnessed.

I curled in on myself further, whimpering. Now that the shock of the battle was wearing off the nausea was overpowering once more. Meeko, now visible too, licked my cheek.

“Yes,” I choked out. “That’s it. It’s also the source of that magical stench. Take it away, please. The closer it gets to me the sicker I feel.” My stomach heaved, and I clumsily turned away from Inigo and Meeko to vomit a thin, bitter bile onto the rock behind me.

Inigo hastily drew back. “I am sorry. Here, I will wrap it up in my scarf and put it deep in my pack — does that help?”

“A little.” I fumbled my waterskin out of my own pack, and took a small sip, then a larger one. With Inigo’s help I clambered to my feet. “I think I’m okay. Let’s get this back to Mother Pure-Spring.”

Recall was very difficult to cast while feeling so ill, and once back in Whiterun I delayed a little in casting Inigo’s summon spell, enjoying the brief respite. I was having serious misgivings about our errand. Was this foul weapon really the way to cure the Gildergreen? It was hard to imagine that something so tainted could be the answer. At least we were nearly done with it.

Unfortunately, however, Mother Pure-Spring was not at all keen to relieve us of the dagger. She, too, visibly recoiled when Inigo held it out to her, and promptly stuck her hands in the pockets of her robe.

“Oh, err … I’m sorry, but I don’t really want to touch that thing. Do you think you could perhaps handle the next steps too? The Eldergleam is in a grotto less than a day’s travel to the east.” She looked away, clearly ashamed.

Disbelieving, I stared at her through red-rimmed eyes. “You still want to go ahead with it? Are you _sure_ this is the right thing to do? You can feel just as well as me how _wrong_ this dagger is.”

“I … I know. I can. But unfortunately I cannot think of any other way.” She shifted guiltily. “Perhaps there may at least be something I can do to … ease the burden. Leave that thing here tonight. No, don’t give it to me — here, place it in this case. I should be able to ward it and lessen its effects. The warding will wear off over time, I’m afraid. But it should hold long enough for you to get to the Eldergleam.”

“Thank you,” I sighed, and after Inigo had dropped the dagger into the waiting receptacle I waved for him to follow me from the temple. As we stepped out into the darkening night, however, I heard an unfamiliar voice behind us.

“Wait, please.” It was a simply-dressed man whom I had briefly noticed in the temple, praying at the shrine. “Was I correct in hearing that you’re travelling to the grove of the Eldergleam?”

“Yes,” Inigo said. “Tomorrow. Why do you wish to know?”

“My name is Maurice Jondrelle. I am a pilgrim.” His voice was breathy, as though he was only using half his lungs, and his eyes were bright and feverish. I found myself slightly wary. “I follow the voice of Kynareth wherever it can be heard. I’ve dreamed of seeing Eldergleam for years. Might I travel alongside you? I promise not to get in the way.”

Inigo looked to me questioningly. I was tempted to say no — this journey was likely to be difficult enough without needing to entertain a travelling companion — but I relented at the pleading look on the man’s face, and how obviously ill-equipped he was to travel the roads of Skyrim on his own.

“Fine,” I said. “We’ll be leaving at first light. Meet us at the Bannered Mare.”

* * *

I was very quiet the rest of the evening. Now that Nettlebane had been safely locked away my mind was free to reflect upon what had happened at Orphan Rock … what I had seen. I stared blankly at my cut of roast venison. Somehow, I wasn’t at all hungry.

Inigo broke the long silence. “You were very brave today. I am very proud.”

“Thanks.” I pushed a carrot around my plate, drawing patterns with the gravy. I couldn’t meet Inigo’s eyes.

“You have come a very long way. I cannot imagine the Kirilee I met less than a season ago voluntarily crawling between a hagraven’s legs!”

“Mm.” Yes, I had changed. We both had. Or so I’d thought.

“Kirilee? What is wrong?”

I started mashing my vegetables into a pulp with my fork. I still hadn’t looked up from my plate.

“Kirilee?”

My pulped vegetables and gravy were a disgusting brownish mess. The same colour as hagraven blood.

“Please, Kirilee. Talk to me. Is it the dagger? Can you feel it still? I am so sorry you must bear this burden. Perhaps I could take it to the Eldergleam alone?”

I finally looked up. Inigo’s open face wore concern writ large. My heart cracked.

“No, Inigo. Nothing like that.” I swallowed. How could I express what was troubling me so? I barely understood it myself. “It’s just … at Orphan Rock … the hagravens … you …”

Inigo’s face fell. “Ah. I am … sorry, that you had to see that.”

I grasped after the right words. “I just … I barely recognised you. You weren’t … _you_. Not how I know you. And I mean, you saved me, I’d have been dead otherwise, but …” I poked at the unappetising mush on my plate. “I thought that Inigo was gone,” I said, my voice small.

Inigo sighed deeply. There was a long and pregnant pause.

“Kirilee,” he said gently, “my friend. You remember, when you told me that I am not the same Inigo I was before we met?”

I gave the table a tiny nod.

“You were wrong.”

My head snapped up. “What?”

Now it was Inigo’s turn to struggle. “This … this has taken me a long time to understand. It helped me, very much, to hear you say that I was not that person. But in the time since … I have realised that this is not wholly true. I am no longer the same, no. But that _was_ me. Not somebody else — me. The things I did — the person I was — they are a part of me, and will be until I die. I do not need to be that Inigo any more. But that Inigo will always be a part of who I am now, and who I become. I cannot pretend otherwise. Do you understand?”

I wasn’t sure I did. “But don’t you want …”

“This has nothing to do with what I want. I cannot ignore the things I did, or pretend they did not happen. But even if I could — I do not think that I should.”

“Why not?”

“Because then how would I learn? How would I grow? And while the things I have lived through … done … are not very pleasant, I can still use those things today. An Inigo who had not lived through what I have could not have taken on four hagravens alone.” He gave a small, self-satisfied smile, then immediately started. “I apologise — not alone. Your spell-songs were very helpful. But not just your music-magic. While it was past-Inigo who gave me the skills to fight, it was you who gave me the reason to.” He smiled again, but this time the smile turned not inwards, but outwards.

In that moment I realised — the clouds were finally gone. He was the sun. Whole and warm once more; not hiding from his past but embracing it, as part of the brilliant, shining beacon of life and warmth he had become.

“Do you understand?” he repeated, a little anxiously.

I returned his smile. “Yes, Inigo. I … I think I do.”

* * *

The next morning we once again rose very early — and it was lucky we did, for once outside the city gates we were met by the dismaying sight of not a single carriage waiting for passengers. “What do we do now?” Maurice demanded. He had indeed been waiting for us in front of the inn when we had emerged, yawning and grumbling, shortly after dawn. I had engaged him in idle conversation while Inigo had ducked over to the temple to pick up Nettlebane, and then the three of us, plus Meeko, had traipsed down to the empty carriage-stop.

“We walk, I suppose,” I said dully. “Here, Maurice, come a bit closer and I can fit you into my Longstride spell. That should at least get us there a bit quicker.” _As long as I can concentrate well enough not to throw up all my breakfast,_ I mentally added. Nettlebane rested in Inigo’s pack, and I could feel its sickly, cloying presence even through the warding. Gritting my teeth, I led the way eastwards.

It was hard to focus on Inigo and Maurice’s conversation as we walked — Mother Pure-Spring’s warding magic still held, but eroded as the day wore on, until by lunchtime I was once again fighting dizziness and nausea. I tried not to let it show; I didn't want to worry Inigo, and wasn’t sure how Maurice would react if I revealed our errand. For the longer we walked and the more I thought about it, the more wrong it felt. I wasn’t sure what I’d do once we were at Eldergleam Sanctuary. I could only hope that the Divines would offer me some guidance.

We arrived at the Sanctuary in the late afternoon. The entrance was located among the pools of Eastmarch, whose hot volcanic water made the air ripple like a gossamer curtain and smell of bad eggs. I still found it preferable to the stench of Nettlebane. Maurice showed us the hidden entrance, and we descended through a low-roofed rocky tunnel into the Sanctuary proper.

It was … it was … It was beyond description. It was as though all of nature’s beauty had been condensed into a single grotto. An enormous, high-ceilinged cave stretched from our feet. Far above it opened to the sky, and a noisy waterfall tumbled through the ever-spring air into a deep pond. Everywhere water was not, life was. A lush carpet of grass blanketed the ground, and plants of every imaginable variety crowded the grotto, filling the air with the mingling scent of a hundred different flowers. It was perfect. Every blade of grass was pristine, every flower lush and fragrant, every butterfly a living jewel. I near wept at the sheer overwhelming beauty of it all, and felt dirty for tainting this sanctum by bringing an instrument of destruction into its welcoming embrace.

“This is … it’s …” I broke off, enraptured.

“I know,” Maurice said softly. “It … is. There is nothing else like this place in all of Tamriel. Please excuse me.”

While speaking his eyes had remained fixed on the crown of the enormous tree at the far end of the grotto. The Eldergleam. Its green-and-pink branches seemed to somehow mingle with the air, as though the tree’s essence stretched beyond its Nirn-bound form. My eyes struggled to comprehend the impossible things they were seeing. Maurice nodded to us, then strode away to an elevated flower-strewn hillock, where he sat down and continued contemplating the Eldergleam.

“Give me your pack,” I murmured to Inigo. “Let’s get this over with.” He handed it to me, placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder, then wandered off to chat amiably with the few pilgrims already in the grove.

I shouldered Inigo’s pack and approached the centrepiece of the glade, the magnificent impossible Eldergleam itself. With dread I noted that, as I’d been told, the path to the great tree was blocked by its roots. I placed Inigo’s pack onto the ground and fumbled inside it. I knew Nettlebane instantly — as my fingertips brushed it I was hit with a wave of nausea and dizziness so overwhelming that I nearly passed out.

Firming my resolve, I wrapped my fingers around the awful object and pulled it from the pack. Shaking from head to toe, I stood and faced the huge twisting root. My stomach was leaden. I raised the dagger — and stopped, immobile. I couldn’t. I had to. But I couldn’t. But I had to.

After what felt like an eternity, Nettlebane fell from my numb fingers. I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it. I would not harm this magnificent bastion of Nature, of Kynareth’s living grace, even if it meant the Gildergreen couldn’t be renewed. As I dropped the knife my knees buckled, and I joined it on the earth.

_I’m sorry, Lady Kynareth, Lady Mara. I have failed You._

Suddenly, I heard pounding footsteps behind me.

“By Kynareth’s name! What do you think you’re doing?” Maurice was outraged. “I had no idea you were a woman of violence!”

“She is not!” said Inigo furiously as he caught up. “How dare you say such things! Why, I should —”

“It’s okay, Inigo.” Tears streamed down my cheeks. “I promise. I — I — I don’t know, Maurice. I was going to — Mother Pure-Spring said she needed sap, to heal the tree — so we found Nettlebane — I was going to … to …”

Maurice stared at me, aghast. “You would violate this marvel of Kynareth’s glory to fix that half-breed stump? That’s abominable. Barbaric!”

“I know!” I wailed. “That’s why — I couldn’t, so I dropped —” I gestured towards Nettlebane — but it was gone. I gasped and looked around wildly, but couldn’t see the cursed dagger anywhere; nor, I realised, could I feel its baleful influence. The queasiness I felt now was purely disgust at myself, at the thought that I might have harmed the Eldergleam.

I turned back to Maurice, intending to ask whether he’d done something to the knife. His eyes had moved behind me, however, and his face was transported with delight. I spun around to see that the great roots were lifting from the ground — the Eldergleam was allowing us to approach.

Maurice smiled at me, all hostility gone. “You made a choice. The right choice. With that, I think I can convince the tree to help us. Follow me.” Inigo rested a hand on my shoulder for a moment, looking concerned, but at a watery smile and nod from me we set off after Maurice up the twisting path.

“The true blessings of nature lie in renewal, not a slavish maintenance of the past,” Maurice said as we walked. “The Gildergreen’s time is past. But we can bring new life to Whiterun instead. Here — kneel with me, and reach out to the Lady. We will entreat Her for Her blessing.”

We had arrived before the tree. Or rather, the Tree. It was magnificent. A huge, sprawling marvel of nature that radiated strength and stability and eternity. I was in awe, unsure of how to react before this imposing being — for a true being it clearly was, possessed of its own presence and soul. This was no mere plant.

“Kneel,” repeated Maurice, and I fell to my knees. Even through my breeches I thought I could feel the rich, dark earth pressing against my skin.

As I settled into a meditative prayer-state I could feel the Eldergleam, its massive, ancient aura enveloping me. I felt _through_ it somehow: I felt my roots tunnelling deep into the sweet earth, the small things living on the surface, the sunlight on my leaves. I felt it reach into me, into my core — I couldn’t understand how, afterwards, but it was as though the tree had tapped into my very soul and was evaluating what it found there. Memories flickered across my mind’s eye, so rapidly that by the time I could register one it was already long gone. I was naked, exposed, wholly and completely. Eventually I felt a sense of … approval, and then a withdrawal — and I was myself again.

I opened my eyes, and in front of me, illuminated by a single shaft of sunlight, grew a tiny sapling: the Eldergleam in miniature. Next to it lay a dagger that I recognised as Nettlebane — but that I could detect no magical aura from whatsoever. I reached out to touch it, and it was naught but a mundane dagger once more. The Eldergleam had cleansed its corruption.

I rose, unstable on my feet, bowed to the ancient tree and gently picked up the new Gildergreen and the dagger.

“Thank you,” I said to the Eldergleam, a little shakily. Then, turning to Maurice, “And thank you, too. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

“It was my pleasure, friend. Take that sapling to Whiterun and give it to Danica. She may protest, but do not back down. This was the right path. Lady Kynareth approves.” His smile was like a shaft of sunlight through new leaves. “In a way, I envy you, getting to carry such a direct sign of Kynareth’s grace. Fare you well.”

“And fare you well,” I said. “May Kynareth’s winds be ever at your back. Ready, Meeko? Inigo?” He nodded, and we Recalled back to Whiterun.

Mother Pure-Spring was hesitant, at first, when we presented her with the sapling. She held the little tree cupped in both hands, blinking at it uncertainly in the cooling evening air. “But … I can’t run the temple without the support of people who are inspired by the Gildergreen. This little twig cannot replace an icon of legend.”

“Maurice said that … that the true blessings of nature lie in renewal, not a slavish maintenance of the past.”

She still looked unconvinced. “The Gildergreen is ancient, and important. Its roots are those of Whiterun itself. How can you say we should just wipe that all away, and start over?”

I thought for a long moment, piecing together what Inigo had said with what I’d learned from Maurice, and what I’d felt in the grove of the Eldergleam. The last rays of the setting sun turned the sapling’s petals from pink to gold, and I reached out to brush one with a fingertip.

“You’re right,” I said. “The Gildergreen’s history will always be a part of Whiterun, and the temple. You’re right that it’s important and we can’t ignore it. But … change is just as much a part of life, isn’t it? We can’t ignore that lightning strike either, or how it changed the Gildergreen. It can’t be what it used to be. But this little sapling … it has the same parent. It’s connected to the old Gildergreen. It’s a new beginning, but one which doesn’t erase the significance of what came before. Wouldn’t it be best to acknowledge the past, but allow for the natural cycles of change and rebirth, too? Wouldn’t the best way to honour Kynareth be to acknowledge that everything changes, and adapt to that change?”

She started, shook her head, then looked at me as though she’d never seen me before.

“I … You’re right. Of course you’re right. It can be hard to hear the winds of Kynareth amidst the rabble in the temple.” She gazed fondly at the little tree. “Life is change, and death feeds new life. I'm sure that, in time, this little sapling will grow into a new Gildergreen that will tower over Whiterun, embodying the history of both. Thank you. And … if you still wish to study with me, child … come and see me tomorrow. I will teach you.”

* * *

Heeding Mother Pure-Spring’s summons, after breakfast at the Bannered Mare I made my way to the Temple of Kynareth. I found the priestess outside, where the old Gildergreen had been growing — for, she told me, it had mysteriously vanished overnight.

“I can only suppose it is because a new Gildergreen has been born to take its place,” she said. “I can sense its spiritual energy has been absorbed by the sapling.” She set the little tree carefully on the ground. “Come, child. Help me settle this babe into its new home.”

Mother Pure-Spring and I talked as we prepared the soil for the new Gildergreen together. I told her why I wanted her help — about my weak Restoration magic, my study of spell-songs, and my increasing fear that I couldn’t protect myself and my friends from the dangers we seemed to ever more commonly face. She listened patiently, then when I had finished speaking, asked, “Which school of magic do you favour, dear? Which comes most easily to you?”

“Alteration,” I replied instantly.

Mother Pure-Spring stood up from the earth in which she had been kneeling, considered me for a moment with a soil-covered finger on her chin, then nodded. She brushed the dirt from her hands, picked up the Gildergreen sapling, and placed it into the hole we had dug.

“Alteration magic,” she said placidly, “is all about will. It relies on the strength of one’s mind and willpower to remake reality into the image one desires. You are clearly possessed of an unusually strong will,” — she tapped me on the forehead — “and so it is no surprise that Alteration magic comes naturally to you. Hand me that, please.”

I passed Mother Pure-Spring the watering-can, smiling wryly to myself. Master Lorent had told me roughly the same thing about Alteration magic, though he had framed it as my head being hard enough to hammer through what reality thought it should be.

“Thank you, dear. Restoration magic is very different. It is not a reshaping of the world, but a channeling of energies. A redirection of the life energy all around us to mend, suffused with some of the caster’s own essence. It is almost the opposite of Alteration, in that while the Alteration mage imposes her will on the energies around her, to be truly effective the Restoration mage must surrender herself to those same energies.” She soaked the soil around the baby tree while she spoke, and as I watched her tenderly care for the little plant I thought I perhaps understood what she meant.

“Like gardening,” I said. “Like what we’re doing right now. You can encourage a plant to grow, help it along, but you can’t force it to.”

She smiled. “That’s exactly right. Nothing in nature can be forced, and everything is a give and take. We must give of ourselves, if we are to heal another. This is why it is rare to find Black mages skilled in more than the most basic self-healing spells — their natures run counter to the very core of Restoration magic itself.”

“Watch closely,” she said, gesturing to the sapling.

She shut her eyes, and placed her palms either side of the tiny tree. Suddenly she erupted with a warm golden light, so bright I nearly had to look away, and I felt a surge of energy so powerful that my breath caught in my lungs. Before my very eyes the once-tiny sapling had grown into a strong young tree, its bright green flower-studded crown already above my head.

Mother Pure-Spring stood up. “That should stop anyone from accidentally crushing our new Gildergreen.”

I stared wordlessly at the priestess — I’d never seen anyone channel that much life-energy, not even when I had watched the most complicated healings in the infirmary back home. My mouth hung open. Noticing the amused glance Danica gave me, I shut it.

“That — that was _incredible_ ,” I said, following her into the temple. “I’ve never seen — how did you —”

“This is why it is so important to redirect energy from the environment, dear. Anyone who tried to do that with only their magicka reserves would be killed in the attempt, no matter how experienced a healer they may be.”

“I … understand. I think.”

She led me across the temple’s beautiful mosaic floor and into her little office. “There is another part of the process, just as important. You need to know your subject. This is why every mage first learns to heal herself — and why you have had some success in healing your friends. You know them well, and so you shape your magic by instinct. But your healing will be much more powerful, much more targeted, and usable even on strangers if you first learn to See and evaluate those around you. This, child, will be your first step in mastering Restoration magic. Here, take this —” She handed me a slim spell tome she had slid from her low bookshelf. “It is a simple spell, to help you focus your observation of a subject. Go now, learn the spell, then try it out on the people of Whiterun. Return at dusk and share with me what you have learned.”

I held the tome tightly. “Yes. I’ll — I’ll do my best. Thank you, Mother Pure-Spring. Or should it be Master Pure-Spring, if you’re my teacher now?”

“Neither, dear,” she smiled. “Just call me Danica.”

* * *

The spell only took a few hours to learn, and once I was done I hunted down Inigo to enlist his aid in testing it out.

“Hold still,” I muttered. “I’m not quite sure how this is going to work. Okay, three … two … one …”

I gasped in shock. Suddenly I somehow _understood_ Inigo’s body and mind. I could feel the strength of his muscles, his slight fatigue, even his lack of magic — as well as a few snippets from his mind and heart. His backside itched; he worried he had an infection of parasites. I blanched. I did _not_ want to know such intimate details about my friend!

Inigo peered at my pale face, puzzled — he clearly hadn’t felt anything. I tried to explain what I’d felt, tripping over my words, and blushing as I reached the part about his backside. To my surprise, Inigo roared with laughter.

“It is true, my friend,” he spluttered, “though you should not have needed a spell to know that! I have been squirming all day.” My face heated to crimson. Meeko barked happily and wagged his tail.

As Danica had instructed, I spent the afternoon surreptitiously casting the Diagnosis spell on the inhabitants of Whiterun. Each time it was the same: I could sense their exact state of health, as well as gleaning other odd little bits of information. Carlotta Valentia invented spiteful stories about her customers. Brenuin the beggar despaired over never having children. Fralia Gray-Mane was developing a drinking problem. Hulda longed to trip Mikael into her bed, and loathed herself for it.

I returned to Danica in the late afternoon, when the increasingly rowdy revelries of the Warrior’s Festival were becoming too much. I told her everything I had learned while she pruned some begonias.

“Well done, child. You have taken your first step on the path of a true healer.”

“But — _why_?” I burst out. “ _Why_ do I have to know all these intimate things about other people — people I like, and respect — people whose private business is no business of mine! I feel dirty, and unethical. Like I’m peeking through their bedroom windows. It feels _wrong_ , Danica.”

Danica nodded, looking very serious. She placed down her shears and stood up. “This is what it is to be a healer. To heal, you must understand _all_ about your patient — not just their physical state, but their mental and emotional one too. Yes, you will be privy to uncomfortable details that others are not — perhaps even that the patients themselves are not — and it is your responsibility to treat them anyway, without judgement, and without it colouring your view of them or yourself. This is the true burden of a healer. Are you prepared to accept it? If so, I will gladly take you on as my apprentice, and train you to your full potential — which is considerable.”

“Wh— what do you mean?”

“With time and work you could grow into a Restoration mage of the highest calibre, dear. A true Master healer. If you want it. However, I know this is a burden and responsibility which is very great. Too great, for many. There is no shame in that, and if this is how you feel — if you would prefer to receive only that which you came for; a better overall grounding — I will understand, and give you this instead. The choice is yours.”

I felt dazed. This was … certainly not what I had expected. I didn’t know what to say.

Danica turned away and picked up her watering-can. “Go home and think about it. This is not a decision to be rushed. Take the time you need, and return when you have made up your mind. In the meantime, practice Diagnosing those around you, and begin trying to sense that which the spell tells you with just your own physical and magical senses.”

“Yes, Danica. Thank you. I will.” I dropped her a hasty curtsey — falling back on my court training, my mind completely jammed — and stumbled out the door and into the darkening night.

After leaving the temple I collected Meeko and Inigo, who had been showing off his swordsmanship to the city’s children with the Warrior’s Festival dummies, and Recalled us all home. I didn’t tell Inigo about Danica’s offer. I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know what to do. All I could think of was of getting to the Skeever, having a goblet of wine, and losing myself in my music for a few hours.


	23. Choice and Consequence

_\---Sun's Dusk 20th, 4E 201---_

_What … what have I done??_

_I write that very literally, for I haven’t got a clue what transpired between the hours of about … midnight, and eight in the morning — half an hour ago. I played at the Skeever for a few hours … and then, then I remember Sam exclaiming delightedly at my return, and insisting on buying me a drink … or several … I was off-balance and confused about Danica’s offer … and then … I think he challenged me to a drinking contest? Which I ACCEPTED?! Oh, Divines, what on earth came over me, what was I thinking?? I have no head for alcohol, none at all!_

_I remember nothing after the first drink … nothing, until half an hour ago, when I awoke on a cold stone floor, still in my (now tragically ripped) favourite gown, my head pounding, and a very, very angry voice yelling at me. Somehow I ended up at the TEMPLE OF DIBELLA in MARKARTH, of all places (how did I even get there??) and — oh, Divines — according to the furious priestess who woke me, we (Sam was there?) — oh, I can barely stand to write it — fondled the statue of Lady Dibella before making a mess of the temple. Mara’s mercy. I’m so ashamed. I must make penance._

_The priestess couldn’t (or wouldn’t) tell me anything about Sam, who had disappeared, but told me I’d mentioned something about Rorikstead … a wedding … and a goat?!_

_Oh Divines. Inigo is going to be insufferable. How could I have let this happen???_

* * *

Much as I wanted to, I couldn’t simply go back to bed after scribbling my horrified thoughts down in my journal — I was expected at the College, as Master Ateia had seen me back at the Skeever the previous night. So with loud groans that caused Meeko to shoot me long-suffering looks for interrupting his napping I carefully washed, dressed, and stumbled to the College, wishing desperately that Danica had taught me a cure for hangovers instead of the stupid Diagnosis spell.

Somehow I made it through the morning’s lessons, though my head was pounding and my fingers slow and clumsy. I was lucky in that neither Viarmo nor Master Six-Fingers expected me, so I only had to suffer through the lesser tortures of Voice and Flute. Ataf was keen to resume our ‘cultural exchange’ in the afternoon, but I mumbled an apology and instead Recalled home as soon as class was over, then collapsed into bed for a few hours’ sleep.

As I expected, recounting the night’s experiences — or rather my lack of any memory of them — to Inigo was a torment in itself. After he finally finished teasing me, he turned to the knotty problem I had been trying my best to avoid — what to do next?

“We forget it ever happened?” I collapsed back onto my bed and pulled a pillow onto my face.

Inigo wouldn’t let me off that easily, however. “But what about Sam?” he reminded me. “We do not know where he is or what happened to him. What if he is in trouble? We owe it to our friend to try and retrace your footsteps.”

I sat back up, holding the pillow against my belly, and glared at him. “Of course, I’m sure this sudden virtuousness of yours is _all_ about Sam’s welfare. It would have _nothing_ to do with uncovering what will surely be plenty more embarrassing details about my activities last night.”

“Of course not,” Inigo said, grinning broadly.

* * *

The next morning I learned that a hangover could last for two days. Joy.

Unfortunately, despite my most fervent wishes, Sam had not been at the Skeever the previous night, and nobody had seen him since we had departed together after our drinking contest the night before that. I therefore had no choice but to drag myself out of bed with the sunrise, complaining loudly to Meeko that all these early mornings were going to be the death of me, and to meet Inigo outside the city gates. My nose was running slightly from the cold; my stomach twisting from both nausea and guilt.

We opted to take a carriage rather than the horses — the allure of being able to Recall straight home proving too great — and I went right back to sleep as soon as we were settled in the carriage, Inigo’s gentle humming lulling me into a doze.

The carriage dropped us off in Rorikstead around lunchtime, and after farewelling Bjorlam we headed to the inn for a meal, and hopefully some answers. Nobody there had a clue what we were talking about, however, so after finishing our cabbage and potato soup we started canvassing the village. I knew we had found what we were seeking when one of the farmers, a stocky, tanned man I later learned was called Ennis, stormed over, brandishing his hoe.

“You! You’ve got a lot of nerve showing yourself in this town again. What do you have to say for yourself, huh?”

I cringed. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I … I have no idea what I’ve done. Please, can you tell me how I’ve — how I’ve wronged you?”

I quailed further under his furious stare. “Is that so? Does the name Gleda ring a bell? The star beauty of my farm? Kidnapped by a drunken lout and sold to a giant? You’d better remember her right fast, before I call the guards and have you hauled away!”

_Gleda_? _Kidnapped_ and _sold to a giant_? I wanted nothing more than to sink into the ground and dissolve among the cabbages. How could I possibly have done such a thing? Inigo was in fits of laughter as I brought my best diplomacy to bear, promising Ennis I would find his goat and bring her back, and apologising every possible way I knew how.

Ennis told us the giant was probably stumping around somewhere to the south of the village, so we set out on foot, Ennis’ admonitions still ringing in my ears. We spent the whole afternoon combing the countryside, and it didn’t take long before I thoroughly regretted bringing Inigo along.

“I did not take you for a _kid-napper_ , my friend. You really must have had quite a night.”

I ignored him, trying to maintain a dignified silence.

“Really, I was certain the man had to be _kidding_. It is very unlike you.”

I tossed my hair and walked faster.

“Sam must be a very _baaad_ influence indeed.”

“Shut up,” I hissed.

“I am sorry. I should not keep _butting_ heads with you.”

“Shut _up_ Inigo, and look!”

For there, silhouetted against the sunset, was the terrifyingly unmistakable form of a giant. Very plainly not just an oversized human, its proportions were all strange: it had long arms and legs, as though they’d been stretched like taffy, with broad hands and feet and a lumpy head like a potato perched atop its bare torso. Its loping strides across the tundra ate up yards with thudding footfalls — and it led a bleating white goat by a string.

I took a few deep breaths, steeling myself, while Inigo watched the giant with tail twitching and an ominously thoughtful look. If he cracked a single giant joke I could not be held responsible for my actions, I told myself.

_Mother Mara, give me courage._

“Wait here,” I muttered. “I’ll try and convince him to … I don’t know, sell her back to us.”

“You are sure about this?”

I shrugged. “No. But this is my fault. It’s my responsibility to set it right.”

Hands in the air, I cautiously approached the enormous figure, shaking from head to foot. No sooner had I opened my mouth, however, than its cavernous mouth opened in turn, it let out an ear-splitting roar, then dropped the string and rushed at me.

Its feet thundered against the earth, far too loud and far too quick. I stood terrified, rooted in place, sure that this was it, this was the end. Its arms lifted above its head — it was nearly upon me — and then it was falling! Meeko — clever, brave Meeko — had rushed between the giant’s legs, tripping it as it barrelled towards me. The towering giant had so far to fall that the impact with the ground immediately knocked it out. I grabbed Gleda’s string, Inigo gave the giant another whack on the head with the pommel of his sword for good measure, and we hurried back to Rorikstead as night began to fall.

“It is lucky we found her when we did, Kirilee. Come morning she may have become _goatmeal_.”

Ennis, gratified to have his beloved goat back, agreed to help me retrace my steps.

“I still can’t figure out why you stole her,” he said happily in between raining Gleda with kisses. “You left a note explaining it, but half of it was gibberish and the rest was soaked in mead. Only bit I could make out was ‘repaying Ysolda in Whiterun’, and even that’s mostly scribbles. Guess you could try there.”

Inigo grinned widely. My heart sank.

“I don’t even _like_ mead,” I said miserably, once Ennis had left to lead Gleda into the barn. Inigo said nothing, but poorly suppressed a laugh as I prepared to Recall to Whiterun.

No sooner had we stepped into the marketplace than I was accosted by Ysolda, a pretty Nord woman I’d exchanged a few conversations with on previous visits to the city. We had gotten along rather well, but this time she did not look at all happy to see me.

“So, you’re finally back,” she said. My heart sank further. What had I done this time? “Look, I’ve been patient, but you still owe me.”

“Yeah … I’ve been getting that a lot,” I sighed. Inigo was working hard to stifle giggles.

Her annoyance melted into sympathy. “What’s wrong? Did the engagement fall through?” She patted me on the arm as I choked. _Engagement?_ “Look, how about we call it even, as long as you bring back the wedding ring?”

_Wedding ring?_ “What do you mean? What ring?” I searched my pockets desperately.

Ysolda crossed her arms. “You scribbled me an I.O.U. for it then headed right off to give it to your fiancee. Don’t you even remember where you left her? And after you told me that sweet story of how you met in Witchmist Grove!” She frowned at me. “I never took you for being so inconsiderate, Kirilee. I’m starting to get an inkling now of why she left you.” She shook her head and strode away.

My brain had jammed. I could hardly believe what I was hearing. A wedding ring? My _fiancee_? What in Oblivion had _happened_ that night?

By this point Inigo was so overcome with mirth that he could barely breathe. I rounded on him furiously. “Do you have anything _helpful_ to contribute, or are you just going to spend the whole time tagging along and laughing at me?”

“Helpful? Yes. I think I will make a very fetching bridesmaid. And a bride should not look so angry on her wedding day, it will make her skin all wrinkled and blotchy.”

I stormed into the Bannered Mare. “Fine. I guess we’re staying here tonight.” And, I added to myself, Inigo’s fur would make a very fetching purple rug.

* * *

I couldn't stand to stay in the inn’s common room for very long. What with Inigo stifling giggles every time he looked at me, and Mikael not bothering to stifle what was on _his_ mind every time _he_ looked at me, it was very hard to concentrate on my lute. Eventually I gave it up as a bad job and stalked upstairs, trying not to throw murderous glances at anyone remotely in my way.

My foul mood had not burned out by morning, and I was so crabby and snappish that even Inigo was silent as we rode in the carriage eastwards. However, after a few hours in the fresh air, surrounded by Skyrim’s natural beauty, my disposition had cleared enough that Inigo felt it safe to start cracking jokes again. By then I had to admit that the ridiculousness of the situation in which I had landed myself was overwhelming my confusion and anger, and I was starting to see the funny side. All that changed, however, when we reached Witchmist Grove.

As we approached the small hovel in rural Eastmarch we saw a tall, bony shape moving inside.

“H— hello?” I called.

The doorknob jiggled, and a moment later the door opened wide. I gasped, and Inigo snatched his bow, as the inhabitant moved into the doorframe.

Facing us was a creature I’d last seen bearing down on me with unholy screeches and nightmarishly long claws while I clutched a tainted dagger to my chest; a creature the likes of which I’d hoped never to see again as long as I lived. My heart pounded and my forehead broke out in a sweat. I heard a whimper escape my lips.

But then the hagraven did something even worse than attacking. She spoke.

“Darling!” she crooned in a croaky voice. “You’re back! I’ve been waiting for you to return, to consummate our love!”

Inigo let out the loudest guffaw I had ever heard from him, which, coupled with the disgusted look on my face, I belatedly realised was hardly the most diplomatic way to handle … whatever was happening.

The hagraven puffed up in fury, exactly like an angry bird. Meeko bristled and bared his teeth. Bow shaking from laughter, Inigo notched an arrow, and I tried to ready a spell, but my mind was blank with revulsion —

And then … the hagraven burst into tears.

I stared at her in horror.

“I knew it,” she sobbed. “I just knew it was too good to be true. Why would a pretty little thing like you ever want someone like me? I’m no beauty, like Esmerelda, with her silky feathers and perfect claws. I should have known it was all one big joke between you and _that man_.” She hung her head, and buried her face in her taloned, too-long hands. I noticed a narrow gold band glittering on one finger.

Revulsion and pity warred within me, not to mention a fluttering fear. I hadn’t yet forgotten Orphan Rock. Fighting my apprehension down as best I could, I cautiously edged closer to the hagraven as she continued to weep. I lifted a hand, and after hesitating for a moment, reached out to pat her clumsily on the shoulder. My skin crawled at the grotesque mixture of pebbled flesh and ragged feathers.

“I’m … I’m sorry,” I muttered, shooting a sharp look at Inigo, who was still wheezing with laughter. “I … didn’t mean to hurt you. I don’t even remember what happened. … What’s your name?”

This was clearly the wrong thing to say. The hagraven howled even louder, and I could barely make out her words between her sobs.

“Y-you don’t — even r-remember — my _name_?” she wailed. “I-i-it really was all a lie. Fine, then. T-take this back. I should have — should have known not to expect anything _good_ from this accursed life. Happiness is not for the likes of me. Go marry that _other man_ instead.”

She pulled the ring from her finger and flung it on the ground at my feet, then stormed back into the hovel, slamming the door behind her. A renewed fit of wailing drifted through the open windows.

I picked up the ring, then turned to Inigo. My stomach was twisting with guilt, now, and if there was any lingering disgust, it was only at myself. It had never before occurred to me to think of a creature like a hagraven as possessing emotions, and being capable of hurt … somehow it felt even worse to know I’d hurt someone so outwardly monstrous, whose life must surely have already been miserable and difficult enough. My cheeks burned with shame.

“Well?” I said, desperately hoping he wouldn’t comment. “That other man she mentioned must have been Sam … but he’s obviously not here. What do you think?”

“I think you really _must_ have been drunk,” Inigo said with a grin.

I very nearly left him there.

* * *

“Oh, thank you!” Ysolda beamed at the ring in her hand, and slipped it into a pocket in her skirt. “I’m sorry I was a bit out of sorts before. I shouldn’t have been so rude. Relationships can be hard, you know, and you’re still so young. I should’ve been more understanding.”

“It’s, er, fine,” I said. “But listen — I still haven’t found my friend. Was he with me, when I borrowed the ring? A man, a bit shorter than Inigo, with dark hair and laughing eyes.”

She furrowed her brow. “No, I’m sorry, it was just you. But … wait, yes! I remember now. I asked about the wedding, and you said you’d be holding it at Morvunskar. Maybe he’s waiting for you there?”

“Morvunskar?”

“Yes, I remember being pretty surprised, as the place doesn’t exactly have the nicest reputation. Apparently a group of mages live there — you know, the kind who like to keep to themselves. Because they do er … kind of nasty magic,” she said, in response to my look of confusion. “But that’s just a rumour!” she added hastily, seeing how I had blanched. “I’m sure your friend is fine.”

I turned to Inigo, my shame at what we’d found in Witchmist Grove momentarily forgotten. Rebel mages? Who were rumoured to dabble in ‘nasty magic’? Sam was in danger. And it was my fault.

I bit my lip. “We’d better hurry there first thing tomorrow.”

“Yes, my friend. It would be very bad manners for a bride to be late to her own wedding.”

For the second time in two days I stormed into the Bannered Mare, slamming the door in Inigo’s face.

* * *

It was the next morning, just after dawn. We were just leaving the Bannered Mare for Morvunskar, when I was approached by a courier. I patted my pockets frantically — surely my rent wasn’t due already! — but instead of a rent notice he handed me … a card. And a lumpily wrapped thin package that could only be a staff.

I opened the card with trembling fingers. It read:

_Happiness is what I wish for you_  
_Not just today but all year through_  
_A day that is filled with love & laughter_  
_Continuing the whole year after._  
_Happy (belated) birthday!_  


_A Friend_

I spun to Inigo, who gave me a very self-satisfied smirk. Lost for words, I just stared.

About a week prior we had been discussing birthsigns. When I’d told him I was born under the sign of the Lady, Inigo had mournfully exclaimed that we had missed my birthday! I had just shrugged uncomfortably — it had been the day we’d learned of Sorex’s death. It hadn’t seemed particularly important at the time. In response to this Inigo had waggled his finger at me saying I had best not forget _his_ birthday, not after I had robbed him of the chance to celebrate mine. I’d thought that had been the end of it, but apparently not.

I unwrapped the package — it was indeed a staff. My fingers ran over the smooth wood.

“Courage,” I whispered.

“There is no chance I will let my dearest friend’s birthday go uncelebrated, even if it is two months late,” Inigo grinned. “I know that you do not like Illusion magic, or use staves to cast your spells. It is more … symbolic.”

“To remind me to be brave?”

“No, my friend. You do not need a reminder of any such thing. To remind you that you _have_ courage, and inspire me to be brave as well. And I am not just talking about fighting.”

I threw my arms around him and held him tight. “Thank you,” I said into his chest, my voice muffled by his tunic. “You’re the best friend I ever had.”

Inigo patted me on the head. “I know. You are very lucky to have me, as am I to have you. Now let us go, and make sure Sam is alive long enough to realise what good friends we are to have as well.”

One very tense carriage ride later we found ourselves near Morvunskar, a great crumbling fortress crowning a hill not far from Windhelm. The driver had warned us to be careful, that the mages living there had a rather nasty reputation in the area. We had thanked him for the warning and set off from the carriage stop on foot. My hand was slippery on the polished wood of my new staff from nervous sweat.

We approached quietly and carefully, inching up the path towards the fortress. I was terrified; at least as anxious as I had been while at Orphan Rock. The two of us could hardly fight our way through a whole encampment of mages, should they turn out to be hostile. But what was the alternative? I was the last person to have seen Sam. I was responsible for whatever had happened to him, and it was on my shoulders to make sure he was safe.

Perhaps a hundred yards from the fortress, however, Inigo stopped short. His ears twitched, and he looked confused.

“What is it?”

“There is nobody here,” he said.

“Yes, I know — just us. I can’t see anyone either.”

“No, there is _nobody here_. I cannot scent anyone living anywhere nearby, nor hear any movement. If I did not know better, I would think this place completely deserted. You agree, do you not, Meeko?” Meeko cocked his head and thumped the ground with his tail.

I shaded my eyes and examined the large holes in the heavy walls, as though a giant had punched through the stone in a fit of pique. Had the rumours been wrong? Or perhaps the mages had already moved on?

“Well, we still have to check. Sam might still be inside, just … deeper, past what you can sense. Your ears aren’t _that_ good, surely.”

“You are right,” Inigo said, shrugging. “And if he is not here, hopefully we will find another clue. Perhaps a receipt, from a wedding supplies shop?”

I swatted at him with my staff. “It’s not funny. And keep quiet. They might even have concealed themselves with magic.”

However, to my increasing confusion, Inigo’s first impression rang true. We didn’t encounter a single soul, neither outside nor in. The fortress was clearly inhabited — we found living quarters, even a kitchen area with food laid out for preparation — but the whole place was deserted. Neither Inigo nor I could think what to make of it. It was as though all of Morvunskar’s inhabitants had one day dropped what they were doing and walked away.

“You have terrible taste in wedding decor,” Inigo commented, kicking at a clump of mushrooms. I ignored him, and gripped my staff tightly. I might not use it to cast magic, but at the very least it was a solid chunk of wood I could hit things with. And whatever Inigo might say, bringing it with me and holding it tight _had_ given me courage.

Eventually we found our way to an enormous dark chamber, mostly empty except for a flight of steps leading up to a dais topped by two thrones.

“This feels … can you feel it?”

“Yes, my friend.”

As one, we approached the dais. Meeko whined, pawing at his nose.

We slowly ascended the stairs, all our senses — mundane and magical — on alert. Something felt … strange … about the air. I was starting to feel a little heady, almost as though I had drunk a glass or two of wine. I closed my eyes and shook my head to clear my senses, and when I reopened them started — for the entire dais was consumed by a whirling portal.

I was unsure about entering, but it somehow … beckoned, called to me. I had a strange feeling that I’d find Sam on the other side. I nodded to Inigo, and we stepped through.

We found ourselves in a misty grove. A babbling brook meandered through trees, colourful paper lanterns woven through their branches. The air had the unmistakable, homey smell of a well-kept inn, and I suddenly felt all my pent-up tension and fear dissipate, to be replaced with that same heady feeling of cheer. I glanced at Inigo, who smiled lazily, made a mock bow, and offered me his arm. I took it, and we sauntered along the path, Meeko at our heels.

I was not at all surprised when at the end of it we found Sam, along with a table of robed folks all eating, drinking, and making merry. Somehow it all just seemed very funny. I hiccupped a little as I greeted Sam enthusiastically, babbling excitedly about everything we’d gone through to track him down, and how glad I was to see him unhurt.

Sam grinned, a too-wide grin that somehow seemed to show every one of his glinting teeth. Then the veil rippled and fell — revealing a very different creature to my friend Sam. Pointed teeth smiled at me from black skin tattooed blood-red; curling horns poked from coal-dark tresses. He introduced himself as Sanguine … Daedric Prince of Debauchery.

“Welcome, friends, to the party,” He said.

At the time it still didn’t seem very frightening or important. I giggled at the very fine joke.

Still smiling that too-toothy smile, He said, “I’ve been watching you for some time, little Chosen of Mara — and I’ve been waiting. You needed an opportunity to … let your hair down, let’s say. Spread some merriment and cheer through this cold, boring province. And boy, did the other night fulfil my expectations. We had a great time, didn’t we? Here — I think you’ve more than earned a little memento.”

He handed me a staff, shaped like an oversized rose, and as I gripped it I could feel the thrumming pulse of tremendous power. In comparison my Courage staff was like a lit candle next to a roaring bonfire. But again, at the time none of this registered — I just used it to steady myself, as my legs felt a little wobbly.

I grinned back. “You fooled me, all right! A prank well done, my friend.” Behind me Inigo chimed in in agreement, launching into the story of our encounter with the hagraven the previous day. Sanguine laughed uproariously, and we all three basked in the shared warmth of wine and camaraderie.

Eventually the laughter died down, and Sanguine patted me on the shoulder. “Perhaps this one’s not such a lost cause after all,” He smirked. “Remember to have some fun once in a while. Enjoy that staff.”

“This?” I peered at the blazing beacon of power on which I leant. “Nah. Don’t need it. Inigo gave me one already.” I gesticulated with my Courage staff, nearly falling over in the process. “Whoops! But here you go. Keep it.”

Sanguine took the staff, blinking at me in astonishment. He looked remarkably taken aback.

“Sorry. Don’t mean to be rude.”

The surprise on His face was wiped away in an instant, to be replaced once more by the toothy grin. “Well then … if you’re sure,” He purred. “See you next time, then. Give my best to young Ataf.” He winked, and suddenly Inigo and I found ourselves back at the Skeever, halfway through raising a glass in a toast, surrounded by our friends.

It took me a few hours to shake off the aftereffects of Sanguine’s glamour. By the time I was trudging home to sleep I was fully myself again, and fully able to comprehend what had just happened. On the one hand, I felt unbelievably lucky to have once again escaped a Daedric Prince unscathed, even if this particular one didn’t seem to have wished me any particular ill. On the other hand … I felt disgusted with myself. My inhibitions removed — for that was all Sanguine had done; I’d never felt even the slightest touch of mind-magic — I’d jumped at the chance not just to drop all my own responsibilities, but to act in ways which were more foolish, selfish and reckless than I ever would have imagined of myself. I couldn’t pretend that I was coerced, or forced, or compelled. I did what I did because I … was having fun. I was enjoying myself. And in the process I had left a trail of destruction behind me.

For that was the power of Sanguine. He could show us mortals what lay in our hearts: what indulgences we were willing to partake in, what boundaries we were willing to cross. I didn’t defy Him. I didn’t see through His guise. I never stopped to think about the consequences of my actions. Mara hadn’t lent me Her aid — was this a test, that I’d failed? Or did She not intervene because the only real danger was to my pride, and my self-image as someone who was unquestionably Good and moral?

I felt sickened. Ashamed. One thing was for sure, I thought as I undressed for bed — I was not fit to accept Danica’s offer. I had just demonstrated that I didn’t have the necessary moral fortitude to be what she wanted me to be. I couldn’t be trusted with the kind of power she was offering.

As I tucked myself into my sheets and fell into a fitful doze, my last thought was that at least Meeko and Inigo still seemed to like me … little though I deserved it.

* * *

_\---Sun's Dusk 24th, 4E 201---_

_Classes were fine. Viarmo didn't understand why I'd go to so much trouble for ‘some dried up twig’ but pleased that Danica agreed to teach me. I didn’t mention her offer. Hadn’t made any progress with spell-songs of course, even though it’s been a full week now. Just another way I’ve acted like an irresponsible fool. Master Six-Fingers thinks practicing Hammerfell music with Ataf is a good idea. She gave me a new songbook to start learning — music from the Summerset Isles — but I couldn't feel excited about it. Practiced with Ataf. Everything feels so pointless. Ignored every request at the Skeever tonight and just played all my most mournful songs and pieces. Corpulus looked worried. Minette gave me a flower. I think she’s starting to forgive me, which just makes me feel that much worse._

* * *

The next day was much like the last, until it came time for dinner at the Skeever. I was poking morosely at my chicken soup when Inigo sat down opposite, a glass of wine in each hand, and placed one in front of me.

“I’ll never drink again,” I sighed, and pushed it back.

Inigo then picked up my wine, and without a moment’s hesitation flung it in my face.

I was too shocked to do anything but splutter in outrage. Inigo, his voice stern, said, “Ever since we returned from Sangiin’s demesne you have been doing nothing but moping around, when we should instead be celebrating. You will tell me exactly what is wrong. Now.”

I swallowed my protests that I certainly hadn’t been _moping_ , and, eyes planted firmly on the table in front of me, told him everything. Danica’s offer to train as her apprentice, become a proper healer. My realisations about myself after our encounter with Sanguine. My shame.

My voice trailed off into silence. “Look at me,” said Inigo, very gently. I raised my eyes, which were swimming with tears — and Inigo threw his glass of wine in my face, too.

Furious, I tried to leap to my feet, but Inigo’s hand on my shoulder pushed me firmly back down into my seat.

“What in Oblivion do you think you’re doing?” I said, affronted beyond belief.

Inigo was infuriatingly composed. “I have simply given you the response appropriate for the level of arrogance you have just shown me.”

“Arrogance? _Arrogance_?” I was so apoplectic I could do no more than mouth at him wordlessly, hurt and angry and bewildered.

“Yes, arrogance,” Inigo calmly replied, handing me a napkin to wipe my face. “Am I perfect? And do you expect me to be?” I shook my head — of course not. “And what about Corpulus —” he beckoned him over, ordering another two glasses and apologising sheepishly for the mess “— or Mister Viarmo, or even Miss Danica? Are they perfect?” I shook my head again. “Then _why_ ,” he demanded, “do you expect _yourself_ to be? Why should you hold yourself to so much a higher standard than everyone else in your life that you should fall into such a pit of misery at the slightest hint that you are merely mortal, like the rest of us? It can only be arrogance. You think of yourself as better.”

I stared at him, dumbstruck, wine still puddling around my feet. He was right.

“Besides,” he continued, “I think Sangiin is right, Daedric Prince or no. You _could_ stand to relax a little bit. Ever since you were chosen by the Mother-Cat you have become increasingly stiff, are laughing less and less. You are more and more interested only in duty and responsibility. You are less and less yourself.”

I nodded mutely. He was right again. I had become wrapped up in being Mara’s Chosen, and the weight of that mantle of responsibility; of making sure I walked the right path — the path She wanted me to.

But … I had come to Skyrim exactly because I wanted to choose my _own_ path, rather than having one chosen for me. Mother Mara had not told me anything I was doing was wrong, or I needed to change course — why, then, should I not continue to … be myself? Make the choices that led me towards who _I_ wanted to be, rather than who I thought I _should_ be?

Inigo smiled as he saw the realisation dawn in my eyes. “The only thing I agree with is that you should not become a healer’s apprentice. Not because you _are not worthy_ ,” — his voice dripped with sarcasm — “but because it would be so very _boring_. Why would you give up the life you are building now, which you plainly love, just to spend day after day treating sniffles with some dusty priestess? You have so many better and more exciting things to do! Did you not just discover how much you like uncovering the intrigues of the nobility? Would you not rather follow in the footsteps of Leliana rather than Danica? And what about your music? You would certainly not have time for that if you were learning the thousand and one ways a body can be broken into pieces!”

And thrice he was right. That damnable, wonderful cat knew me better than I knew myself, sometimes. I had been so worried about what I _should_ do that I hadn’t stopped to consider what I _wanted_ to do.

I wanted to keep doing what I was now. I wanted to be famous all over Tamriel, not as a healer, but as a bard. I wanted to spend my days with my instruments and my friends, my evenings in taverns filled with laughter and the smell of candle-smoke … and ballrooms filled with colourful silk skirts and equally colourful secrets. I wanted more of what Viarmo had given me a taste of. I wanted power not over bodies, but hearts. And if Lady Mara had a problem with that … she could tell me Herself.

* * *

The next day we travelled to Whiterun, to tell Danica of my decision. I was nervous, my palms sweaty as I stammered a slightly more flowery ‘thank you, but no thank you’. Thankfully she didn’t seem upset, accepting my choice with a slight nod of her head.

“In that case,” she said, “I will still teach you — but just for one day a week. Can you manage that, living in Solitude?”

“Yes. I have Mark and Recall, it’s really no trouble to visit for a day.”

“Very good.” She led me outside the temple, where we sat on a bench next to the Gildergreen sapling. I smiled at it fondly. It seemed to be doing well. “So, my child, how have you been progressing with your Diagnose spell?”

I had indeed been practicing it on the inhabitants of Solitude, and had learned many things I would rather have forgotten.

“Would you care to share any of what you have found out?” I shook my head emphatically. She smiled. “Well done. That was the correct answer — it is not for us to decide to share another’s inner secrets.”

As I didn’t intend to become a full healer I thankfully wouldn’t need to spend too much more time working with that particular spell — Danica said its primary use for me was to help me better connect with and understand my subjects, but that I wouldn’t need to know them on quite so intimate a level for most of the magic I would be performing. I heaved a great sigh of relief. Using the spell had made me very uncomfortable, and I had carefully avoided casting it on anyone I knew well.

Instead, that day Danica taught me an entirely different spell, a much weaker version of the one she’d used on the young Gildergreen.

“Here.” She pointed at a small clump of leaves poking from the cold dirt of her winter garden. “Cast it on this. Remember: draw as much of the energy for the spell as you can from the environment, rather than yourself.”

I shut my eyes, focusing on reaching for the energy I could feel, very faintly, tingling in the air around me — the magic of nature; the living energy that connected everything that lived and grew. I strung the few simple forms together and reached towards the plant. As I _pushed_ I also _pulled_ , as Danica had taught me, trying to draw on that wellspring of living energy. I opened my eyes and released the spell.

The plant in front of me suddenly swelled, leaves growing thick and lush, and finally bursting into a shock of pink blossoms. I beamed at Danica. “I did it! Look, did you see?”

“I did.” She smiled gently. “Very well done. However, while you drew on the environment a little, most of the growth was fueled by your own magicka. Try again on this plant here. Remember to concentrate on your connection to the energy around you.”

I set my face, nodded firmly, and tried again. And then again. We spent the whole afternoon practicing the spell together, Danica guiding me, and by dusk she was satisfied I could continue on my own.

Afterwards I joined Inigo at the Bannered Mare for a spot of supper. I dropped into my seat, breathing deeply of the air — it smelled of candle-smoke and roast venison. Hulda nodded as she passed carrying a tray of empty goblets and tankards, and I even caught Mikael’s eye and gave him a little smile and a wave. Perhaps I’d been too hard on him. His doomed optimism in the face of constant rejection seemed almost endearing, now.

“How did it go?” Inigo asked, handing me a goblet of wine.

“Very well.” I took a sip, humming happily. After supper, perhaps I’d step up to play for a set or two before Recalling home for bed. My heart felt light as a feather.

“What are you so happy about? Did Mother Danica agree to teach you a hangover cure?”

“No,” I replied, and my face broke into a dazzling smile. “It’s just that … I think I’ve chosen correctly.”


	24. A Different Kind of Magic

The last days of autumn slipped almost imperceptibly into winter, Skyrim’s already frosty late-autumn weather and everlasting evergreen pine trees hiding the setting of Sun’s Dusk below the horizon of Evening Star. I found myself thinking more often than ever of home: of the swirling red and gold leaves turning to a thick, crunchy brown blanket on the ground, into which I used to throw myself as a child; of mugs of chocolate in front of the enormous hearth, a special treat with which Mother would surprise me when I was sad; of the excitement of the first snow of winter, and the sudden hush that would descend over the estate’s grounds when everything was newly white and still.

The turning of the seasons had a rhythm back in High Rock which it did not in Skyrim, where the plantlife barely changed from month to month, and where it might snow as early as Hearthfire or as late as Second Seed — or in some parts of the province, never stop snowing at all. I found myself feeling strangely lost and adrift, and oddly this, more than any of the other, starker differences between Skyrim and High Rock, brought on unsettling bouts of homesickness which would deaden my mood for days at a time. Evening Star also meant Saturalia, and this would be the first time in my life I wouldn’t be spending it with my family.

For despite my ache for the comfortable familiarity of winter in Aldcroft, I had no desire at all to go home — not even for Saturalia. More and more Solitude felt like my real home; the life I was building here my real life. Even though I’d only left my family’s estates little more than a season ago, Kirilee the daughter-heir was beginning to feel like a distant memory, and Kirilee the bard the real, true version of myself. I knew, of course, that this was an illusion, and one I couldn’t maintain forever. Eventually, my two selves would have to reunite, somehow … as Inigo had said, I couldn’t pretend forever that who I had been before wasn’t a part of who I was now. Eventually I would either have to go home and resume my role and responsibilities as Father’s heir, or … what? Abdicate my position? Fully embrace my life as an independent bard, cut off from my family’s influence — and perhaps goodwill, perhaps even their _love_ — forever?

The looming choice felt monumental, and one which I was not yet prepared to face. So I didn’t. Except for during those dark nights when the worries wouldn’t let me push them away, I kept pretending to myself and to the world the same thing I had since I’d first set foot off the _Wind’s Pleasure_.

It was easy to pretend, for my new life wrapped me ever more tightly and enjoyably in its embrace. Afternoon of the first Turdas of Evening Star found me in a particularly good mood. I’d just had one of the best lute lessons of my life: Master Six-Fingers had given me a folio of Altmer compositions to begin studying a week or two prior, and we’d finally dug into the first of them, a _Prelude and Fugue_ by the legendary Bachantar.

I had never before learned any music from the Summerset Isles, and was astounded at what I’d been missing out on. The simplest Altmer composition had a deep richness and complexity that our composers back home could only hint at. If Breton music had the beauty of a young girl on the cusp of adulthood, the music of the Altmer was a woman’s beauty, ripened and matured. If Breton music was a sparkling cider, Altmer music was a rich, fine wine. I could begin to understand why the High Elves thought themselves superior to the races of Men if this was the calibre of art they produced. I had commented to Master Six-Fingers that it was probably no surprise, with their lifespans so much longer than ours — even the most mediocre of composers could surely produce masterpieces given centuries to hone their craft. She’d just drawn her mouth into a thin line and told me to get on with playing, rather than nattering … but I could tell she agreed.

I hugged my folio to my breast as I happily clattered down the stairs. Master Six-Fingers had given me a great gift with this volume of nine pieces. I couldn’t wait to write to Master Ylbert about it.

I was just thinking about how much more satisfying it was to work on Altmer rather than Redguard music when Viarmo’s office door opened, and he stuck his head out into the hall.

“Kirilee,” he said. “I need a word.”

I changed direction a little apprehensively. My Melody of Endurance was coming along, and he’d started me on the Melody of Strength, but with my new Restoration work for Danica and the Summerset pieces from Master Six-Fingers I hadn’t been spending as much time on my music-magic as I knew I ought to. However, Viarmo didn’t want to talk about music-magic at all. Instead, after I had sat down on the hard chair in front of his desk, he held up a sheet of paper so perfumed I could smell it from where I sat.

“Laila Law-Giver’s having a soiree this Loredas evening,” he said, “and she wants a College bard. Well, actually, she wants you.” He cleared his throat, then recited in a falsely pompous, high-pitched voice from the letter he was holding: “Any bard of sufficient talent and bearing will suffice, but I would prefer the attendance of the delightful young Kirilee who has previously impressed Our court with her poise and charm.”

I stifled a giggle. At least she seemed to have forgiven me for my outburst the previous month.

He looked up at me. “Fancy a trip to Riften?”

“Certainly, Headmaster, if you wish it.”

Viarmo invited me to share a cup of tea before I left, saying he’d managed to procure a particularly fine Morrowind blend. As he poured the tea we chatted about the Rift and Riften. His voice was carefully neutral the whole time and the tone light; we discussed nothing more complex or political than the relative merits of Black-Briar versus Honningbrew mead. I had spent enough time at court, however, to read the subtext of such a conversation very well, and his meaning was clear: he wished me, as in Dawnstar, to _observe_ the situation in Riften, and in Laila’s court specifically. I thought to myself that there was already a great deal I could tell him about _that_ particular hornet’s nest, but said nothing.

“You know what to do?” he said, his burnished gold eyes boring into me as I stood up to leave.

“Yes, sir,” I replied. I thought about giving him a small wink on the way out, but decided against it. “Thanks for the tea.”

“By the way, choose your outfit carefully. Lately Laila favours blue over red.”

 _Ah._ “Understood. Thank you for the advice, sir.”

“See you Morndas. Enjoy the party.”

As I pulled the door shut behind me I couldn’t suppress a thrill of excitement. It had now been weeks since my return from Dawnstar without a word from Viarmo regarding this _other work_ , and while a part of me had been relieved that it had perhaps been a one-off assignment, an even greater part of me had been disappointed. Furthermore, this time I was being sent to _Riften_ , a city I already had both experience with and a personal stake in … although I couldn’t exactly relish the thought of sharing a room with Maven Black-Briar again, who would likely be in attendance.

Before I could muse any further about the unpleasantness of the Black-Briar family, or Viarmo’s hint about Laila supporting the Stormcloaks, I was startled from my thoughts by a wholly unexpected sound: that of weeping. Curious, I followed it to its source. To my utter shock I found none other than Illdi, sitting hidden away behind the great staircase, crying softly into her knees.

“Illdi?” I said, squatting down.

She lifted her face from her knees. Her eyes were very red. “K-Kirilee? W-what’re you doing here?”

“I had a meeting with Viarmo, and I heard — but what’s wrong? Why are you back here?”

“It’s — it’s nothing. Don’t worry about me. I just — I just needed a minute to — to —” She hugged her knees more tightly to herself, looking very small, despite her height.

I crawled into the cramped space and sat down next to her, ignoring the thick carpet of dust. “Please, Illdi. Tell me what’s wrong.”

She took a shuddering breath. “It’s — okay, then.” She took my proffered handkerchief and blew her nose with a very un-Illdilike honking sound, then wiped her eyes on her sleeves. “Well … you remember Aia saying she wanted me to come up to the Blue Palace with her? That was last night.”

A ball of dread dropped into my stomach. “I’m guessing … it didn’t go well?”

She shook her head miserably. “It was awful. I didn’t want to go — I’ve only been here a year or so, everything’s still so overwhelming — what do I know about talking with lords and ladies? I didn’t even have anything nice enough to wear. Most of my stipend goes home to my parents right now, you know, with the war … but Aia said it would be fine, that I didn’t need anything fancy, and she’d — she’d —”

Tears streamed down her cheeks, and her breathing was ragged. “She promised she’d look after me, Kirilee! But she didn’t. She kept saying — saying all these things which I could _tell_ were meant to make me feel bad — or look bad — but never in a way where I could actually say anything, you know? And I felt so _stupid_ and _ugly_ in my cotton dress, compared to — to all these fancy people, and — and Aia knew them all by name, and kept saying all these clever things, and then I used the wrong _spoon_ , and, and, and this beautiful lady just _looked_ at me and I wanted the ground to swallow me right up. And then her and Aia _laughed_ , and Aia — and Aia, and the Thane — him and Aia —”

Illdi sobbed even harder, and at the sharp pain and grief in her voice something finally clicked into place.

_Oh._

“You and Aia …?”

Illdi nodded, pressed against her knees, her fingers white as she dug them into her encircling arms. “For a — a few months, now. Only … only … n-not any more …”

I reached an arm around Illdi and pulled her close. She buried her face into my shoulder and cried, shaking and heaving, while I muttered soothing nothings.

Inside, I felt both very stupid and very angry. How had I not seen it? And how dare Aia treat my friend as no more than a passing fancy, disposable as soon as a bigger fish came along to be hooked? Couldn’t she see what she had, in winning the heart of someone as sweet and gentle as Illdi?

Aia’s behaviour towards Ataf made a particular and horrible kind of sense, now. I prayed to Mara that he never found out.

Eventually Illdi had cried herself out, but kept her head resting on my now very damp shoulder.

“I’m so stupid,” she said at last, very quietly. “Why would I ever think someone like Aia would actually be interested in someone like me?”

I hugged her more tightly, ignoring the pins and needles in my arm. “Illdi, the only stupid thing you’ve done is thinking that you’re not worthy of Aia, rather than the other way round. You’re worth a dozen of her. If she can’t see that and would rather trail after that slimy bastard Erikur, then it’s her loss.”

“That’s very kind of you, Kirilee, but it’s … it’s not true,” she said. “I’m not beautiful, or clever, or talented. I’m nothing special. Aia’s … Aia’s better off without me, and with someone more like … her.”

My heart cracked at the resigned desolation in her voice. Oh, poor, sweet Illdi. If only she could see herself how Ataf saw her …

I sat bolt upright, slamming my collarbone into Illdi’s chin. “Oops! Sorry, Illdi — here, let me help you up. Enough wallowing in the dust. Come with me.”

With my help Illdi dragged herself up off the ground, still sniffling slightly, and looking very bemused. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, nothing. I’ve got a quick errand to run, then we’ll go to the Skeever. Inigo’s great at cheering people up, we’ll have a lovely time. You’ll forget all about Aia. By the way, your birthday’s coming up soon, right?”

“Not — not really. It’s in Rain’s Hand. Why d’you ask?”

“Close enough. No reason,” I said, grinning broadly and tugging her by the hand out the front door of the College.

I rebuffed all of Illdi’s questions as we walked through the city under a slate-grey sky. “I’ve got to pick up an order, and a walk in the fresh air before we get into the wine will do you good,” was all I would say. Illdi hugged herself against the flurrying snow and rubbed her reddening nose, but didn’t protest.

She finally seemed to grow suspicious when I pushed open the door to Radiant Raiment.

“Kirilee … what are we doing here?”

I sighed happily at the wash of warm air and the welcoming tinkle of the little bell. “Like I said, I have to pick up an order. It won’t take long. Hello, Taarie! Have you met my friend Illdi?”

Taarie had startled when the door had opened, and hastily stuffed what looked like a letter under the counter. Her face relaxed into a smile when she saw it was me, though her ears were still rather pink as she hurried over to meet us.

“Kirilee! So lovely to see you. Here to pick up your new gown? And — Illdi, was it?” She extended a long golden hand, which Illdi nervously shook. “You’re at the College too, I take it?”

“Y-yes,” Illdi said. Taarie peered at her expectantly, but Illdi seemed completely struck dumb.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Taarie said, after a few seconds of silence. “Kirilee, your gown’s nearly ready, but Endarie needs you for a final fitting in back.”

“Oh,” Illdi said, reddening. “I’ll, um, go wait for you in the Skeever, Kirilee?”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “I’ll only be a few minutes. Taarie, if you’re not too busy, maybe you could show Illdi some of your recent designs?”

“No — no, I wouldn’t want to be a bother —”

“Nonsense.” I grinned. “Taarie’s very proud of her winter line, and would be awfully offended to be robbed of a chance to show it off, wouldn’t you, Taarie?” I shot her a quick wink, while Illdi was occupied staring at her twisting hands.

Taarie’s face lit up, and her answering smile rather reminded me of a sabre cat. “That’s right. You wouldn’t deny me the pleasure, surely, would you dear? Why, I have this gown I can already tell will set off the colour of your eyes simply _spectacularly_ …”

She took a panicked-looking Illdi firmly by the arm, and steered her away towards the display racks. I gave the pair a little wave, then slipped into the back room to see Endarie.

Taarie’s older, sterner sister was bent over a workbench with her back to me, but looked up at my knock on the wall. She spat a few pins into her hand, and gave me an approving nod.

“Good, you’re here,” she said. “I was just adding the finishing touches.” After dropping her pins onto the bench she lifted up the gown she had been working on. I gasped, and my hands shot up to my mouth.

“That’s exactly the response we were aiming for,” she smiled, holding it up for me to examine.

About a week prior I had ordered a custom-tailored gown, one which Taarie, Endarie and I had spent a whole afternoon carefully planning together. I had brought over a folio of Daggerfall fashions which Taarie and Endarie had pored over with interest, and we had settled on a design based on a style recently popularised by the Crown Princess, though with a few of Taarie and Endarie’s own modifications. I’d been able to think of little else from the moment I had shaken their hands and left the shop.

“It’s … it’s _wonderful_ ,” I breathed. And it was indeed perfect. A marvellous construction of red silk and gold satin, it was even more beautiful than I had imagined. I ran my fingers over the delicately woven fabric. Yes. If I had to appear before Maven Black-Briar this was definitely the gown I wanted to do it in.

“It has turned out rather well, if I do say so myself. Now, if you’ll just pop it on, dear, I’ll make sure everything is sitting as it should.”

Endarie helped me into the gown, clucking and tutting over each fold in the fabric.

“This comes at the perfect time, you know,” I said, then was immediately cut off by Endarie sharply tightening the corset. “Oof! That’s tight enough, I think. But the timing really is perfect. I’m playing at a soiree this weekend, for Jarl Laila Law-Giver in Riften.”

“Ooh, you don’t say!” Endarie said. “That’s wonderful news, dear. Congratulations indeed. We’ve known from the moment you stepped into the shop that it would only be a matter of time before that pretty smile of yours was gracing the finest courts of Tamriel. … Not that Mistveil Keep precisely qualifies as such, of course,” she sniffed. “Your presence will certainly _elevate_ the tone several notches. Though you’d already know that quite well, hm?”

There was something in her voice that made me uneasy. “Thanks, Endarie. Um … what exactly do you mean?”

“Why, nothing, dear, nothing at all,” she said in an unconvincingly offhand voice. “Just take a spin for me for a moment? Lovely. By the by, if you ever _do_ feel the urge for a less … _constrained_ chat, pop around any time for some tea and _sancarnile_. Taarie and I know how to keep our mouths shut. A lady’s tailor keeps her secrets just as well as her courtesans, after all, hm?”

I froze mid-spin. For the second time in as many hours the shock of realisation crashed into me.

Of course they had always known I was nobility. Their livelihoods, like mine, relied on accurately reading people. They could probably spot the difference between someone nobly-born and common just by the way they opened the shop door. I’d been a naive fool not to realise it sooner.

“Something the matter, dear?”

I sighed, and slumped. “No, Endarie. Everything’s perfect. This is the loveliest gown I’ve ever seen, let alone worn.” She nodded in professional satisfaction.

I turned it all over in my head as Endarie flitted around me, making adjustments with a deft needle and thread. I supposed it didn’t matter; not really. As Endarie had said, they’d certainly been tight-lipped with my secret, and I both liked and trusted the sisters. We’d built a very comfortable part-professional, part-personal connection, and I valued their friendship. I wasn’t worried they would start spreading tales.

Though it _did_ explain, at least partially, why they had treated me so kindly that first time I’d been to visit the shop. They had probably — quite accurately — assessed that a good turn then would pay them dividends later on.

I tried not to let my abashment mar my delight in my new gown, or conjure resentment towards my friends. I consoled myself with the thought that even if they had always known I was noble they still couldn’t know exactly who my family was — and besides which, as far as I knew none of Solitude’s _other_ nobles, secret or not, had earned invitations for tea and … what had she called it?

“What was that thing you said, before? San-something or other?”

“ _Sancarnile_ , dear,” Endarie said as she helped me back out of the gown, and began wrapping it in brown paper. “A kind of Altmer sweet. Little apple pastries; they’re very nice, but quite difficult to source. We have a contact, but — oh!”

For Taarie had just knocked at the door, leading a very shy, but very pleased-looking Illdi by the hand. Taarie had dressed her in a lovely, floaty azure blue gown, which did indeed make her eyes sparkle like sapphires.

“Wow, Illdi,” I said, meeting her sparkling eyes. Endarie made an approving noise from the workbench.

Illdi smiled uncertainly back, blushing a little. I noticed she was holding herself taller, somehow, and she kept lifting one hand and touching the dress — a gentle brush against the waterfall-like skirt, a lingering caress of the silver belt beneath her breasts, a quick tug to adjust the sleeves.

“It’s … it’s nice, isn’t it? Madame Taarie was so kind to let me try it on. I can’t believe it fits so well.”

“You’re very close to one of our stock sizes, dear,” Taarie said. “You’re very lucky. Usually we have to tailor gowns for them to fit like that. You could waltz in any day of the year and have anything you liked straight off the rack.”

“Um. That’s nice. Though I … couldn’t really afford to do anything like that,” Illdi said, now blushing hard. “In fact … I’d better take this one off before I damage it by accident. But I wanted to show you, Kirilee. It’s so beautiful. I’ve never worn anything like it.” She forced her hand down from where it had been running back and forth over the gauzy fabric.

I felt a warm glow radiating from the centre of my belly. Inigo often called my love of fashion and ‘fancy clothes’ fickle and silly — but he didn’t understand the effect a beautiful gown could have on the way a person saw themselves. _Look at yourself,_ the right gown could say; _Look at yourself and see how beautiful you are. You are special, you are worthy._ It was a different kind of magic, and one that I could see working on Illdi. I gave Taarie another wink as she followed Illdi out, and received a sly smile and a nod in return.

“Ah, I see,” Endarie said, stepping beside me and handing me my wrapped gown. “You are hoping to court the young lady? She is a very sweet young thing.”

“No, nothing like that,” I laughed. “I’m just hoping the right gown might help her see what’s so obvious to everyone else.”

Endarie’s lips curved into a thin smile. “I knew I liked you,” she said.

* * *

“Thank you so much,” Illdi said, for at least the dozenth time.

We were at the Skeever, several hours and a few goblets of wine later. As I’d hoped, Inigo’s gentle cheerfulness had kept Illdi from dwelling on Aia’s dreadful behaviour; but in truth she hardly seemed to need it. I didn’t think I’d ever forget Illdi’s expression — half disbelieving, half wanting to cry, entirely overwhelmed with joy — when I had handed her the paper-wrapped azure gown in Radiant Raiment. For at least the next half hour she’d been able to do nothing but stammer half-sentences, and the whole afternoon and evening had only placed down her precious parcel when she’d needed to visit the bathroom — and reluctantly, even then.

“Seriously, thank you,” she said again, before I’d had time to finish chewing my huge mouthful of salmon.

Inigo clapped her on the shoulder as I gesticulated wildly with my fork. “She is trying to say, do not mention it. Which I very much agree with. Kirilee’s head is already large enough after this request from Jarl Laila, all this praise will mean she soon cannot fit through doors.”

I gave him a flat stare, my mouth still too full to say anything — which had, of course, been the point.

“I still can’t believe a Jarl asked for you personally, Kirilee,” Illdi said. “I saw Jarl Balgruuf once, when my parents won a prize for their honey, but actually getting to play for one! I’m sure I’m still years away from such an honour.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” I said, finally having swallowed my salmon. “I’ve heard you play the flute. You’ve got a lot of talent, and more importantly, you work hard. I’m sure you’ll be playing at all kinds of society events in no time.”

Illdi blushed a brilliant pink and averted her eyes. Unfortunately, it meant that they happened to fall on Aia, who had just come through the door of the inn, arm in arm with Erikur. Illdi jumped as though she had been scalded, then shrank in on herself when Aia, clearly having noticed, rolled her eyes and tossed her gleaming hair before letting Erikur lead her into a private dining-room.

All of Illdi’s former confidence and happiness had popped like a soap bubble. She bent her head, letting her hair fall forward to conceal what I was sure were new tears in her eyes.

“Do not think about her,” Inigo said bracingly. “And remember, one word and I will fill her bedroom to the rafters with spiders. It will be no trouble at all.”

“Thanks, but it’s okay,” Illdi said. She fingered the paper of the parcel in her lap. “I can’t help wondering … if I’d had this dress yesterday …”

“Don’t think like that,” I said. “If the only thing standing between Aia treating you like a human being and _that_ was a pretty dress, then she doubly wasn’t worth your time in the first place. You’ll wear that gown for people who’ll see your worth whether you’re wearing it or not. Shut _up_ , Inigo, you know what I mean!” I said, rounding on him as he began to snigger.

Illdi managed a small smile, though her eyes were still rather watery. “Thanks, Kirilee. I … we’ll see, I suppose. I want to believe you.” She stood up. “I’d better go. I’m sorry I can’t stay to see you play, but, you know.” She gestured towards the closed door of the private dining-room.

“Don’t worry about it.” I stood up to give her a hug.

“Thanks again. For the dress, and … everything else.”

“It’s no more than you’re worth. Truly, Illdi. I count myself lucky to be your friend.”

Her smile was stronger this time, but she still hurried from the inn, her new gown clutched protectively to her chest. I watched her go, lost in thought until I felt a light tapping on my shoulder.

“Kirilee?”

“Minette!” It was the first time she’d sought me out since I’d arrived back from Riften. “What is it?”

She’d pushed her hands firmly into her skirt-pockets, and didn’t meet my eyes as she spoke. “Um. I was wondering. D’you — d’you think you could maybe, if it’s not too much trouble, um, maybe teach me how to ride? I’ve always wanted to learn, y’know, and Talara is so nice and Blaise said she’s just my size, but Papa said we can’t afford lessons — I mean, only if you _want_ to, and maybe in return, I could, um, show you my secret brewing recipes? I haven’t even shown Papa, but it’s um, it’s okay if you don’t want to, I just, um, Inigo told me I should ask …” Her voice lapsed into a mutter, and her hands were so deep in her pockets it seemed as though she was trying to bore a hole in them.

“Of course I can,” I said, not bothering to hide my pleasure at the unexpected request. “Blaise was right, Talara would be a good fit for you, so we should take advantage of that before you grow too much taller. I’m sure she’d love to have someone else ride her, too, given how busy I am these days.”

“R-really? You mean it? I could — I could ride Talara? All by myself?”

“Sure. Once you’ve got the basics down, as long as you don’t go far from the city. You and her are both responsible enough that I trust you with each other.”

Minette looked like she could hardly dare to believe her ears.

“I’m away this weekend,” I continued, “but I can probably make a little time on Morndas, in the afternoon?”

“Yes! Please! Thank you!” Minette squeaked. A moment of indecision, then she threw her arms around my neck for a heartbeat, before dashing away into the back room. I suspected she didn’t want me to see her crying.

“I take it she’s forgiven me, then,” I said, dropping back into my seat and turning to Inigo, who had watched the exchange with a very self-satisfied smile.

“She has. We have spoken, when you have not been around. She was never really angry, just hurt and frightened. She did not know how to put things back to normal again.”

I dug back into my salmon. “Suggesting she ask about riding was a good idea.”

“I thought so,” he said, taking a smug sip of wine. “It will be good for you both, I think. But you have done very well with Miss Illdi, too. We have both been very clever and helpful today, yes?”

“Sure,” I laughed. “Poor Illdi … though I can’t help thinking she’s better off, anyway. And that Aia’s bitten off more than she can chew.”

Inigo shrugged. “Who can say? It is none of our business, in any case. But now that Miss Illdi has gone —” He reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out an envelope. “This arrived for you today. It is postmarked from High Rock.”

I dropped my knife and fork with a clatter. He slit the envelope open using the tip of a claw, and I took it from him with mounting excitement.

“Inigo — this is Mother’s handwriting! Finally!” I pulled the folded pages out, my hands trembling. It had been nearly two months since I had sent my letter home.

My eyes flicked over the creamy paper. I smiled ever wider — in reading Mother’s firm hand, tracing my finger over her words, I felt enveloped by her love; as warm and cared-for as though I was in her physical embrace.

“Mittens has had kittens — and oh, my old horse, Mist, has been loaned to my horse-mad little cousin Elspeth — she’s about Minette’s age, they’d get along famously, I reckon — cousin Etienne’s been helping Father more with running the estate, that’s good —” I looked up at Inigo’s questioning hum. “He’s my oldest cousin, roughly a year older than me. I’m not hugely fond of him, he’s a bit of a stuffy prig, but he’s next in line to — you know — after me. So I guess if Father’s starting to train him up then perhaps he’s preparing for the possibility that I might _not_ want to …”

I trailed off into silence, blinking at the enormity of what I’d just said.

“… Is that something you are thinking?” Inigo asked.

“Um. Maybe. I don’t know. Let me read.” I buried myself back in the letter, eyes raking over the words. “What I really wanted to know was … yes, here we are. They … have no idea who might have sent the assassins,” I said hollowly. “They’re outraged, of course, but are just as baffled as we are. She writes that they _took measures_ when I left to make sure nothing of the sort would happen while I was away, and it definitely couldn’t be anyone from home. What in Oblivion does she mean by that?”

“I do not know. Could they have … paid certain people off? I do not know how these things work in your homeland.”

“I mean, that sort of thing certainly happens, but there isn’t enough gold in all of Tamriel to pay off _everyone_ who might … I don’t know. I don’t understand.” I stared at the small, precise words: _We have taken measures._ “I suppose at least it’s a comfort that there’s no obvious reason for the contract to originate from home … unless there is, but they didn’t think it was safe to put into writing? Oh! Wait a moment …” I scoured the page. “No, no cypher. Bother.”

“Hm. Well, in any case, there have been no attacks in some time now. Perhaps they have given up?”

“I hope so.” It had taken several weeks, but I had eventually stopped worrying about another attack; stopped checking over my shoulder every time I left the city walls. Now I felt that familiar prickling fear rising once more, but pushed it away. It had been months. Inigo was probably right. Two failed attempts had perhaps been enough.

Still, I had hoped this letter might give me answers, rather than raise more questions.

I sighed. “Well, I suppose there’s not much we can do from here other than continue to try not to get stabbed.” I read on. “Oh! She mentions you — ‘We are both delighted to hear you have found such a fast friend and protector, and are forever in his debt for saving your life’. She’s been so worried about me all by myself in _that barbaric province_ and says it puts her heart at ease to know I’m not alone, and have found someone worthy of my trust.” My heart swelled. I had of course written at length about Inigo to my parents, and it made me feel inordinately proud to see my glowing opinion of him reflected in Mother’s own words.

“In my debt, are they?” Inigo chuckled, trying and failing not to look too pleased.

“Yes — there are all kinds of rewards waiting for you at home, apparently … where they want me to return.” My smile turned to a scowl.

“What?”

My breathing quickened. I hardly needed to read what was on the page; I knew exactly what Mother would say. “She writes that _of course_ they’re very proud of me and everything I’ve accomplished — she doesn’t actually specify those accomplishments, of course — but _wouldn’t it be time to give up on this foolish flight of fancy_ and come home where it’s _safe_ , and where I can be with my family again.” I realised my hands holding the letter were shaking again, but this time from anger, rather than excitement.

“I can’t believe this!” I said to Inigo. “Still — _still_ — they won’t take me seriously! They _still_ won’t let me be my own person, or make my own choices.”

“Perhaps it is merely that they are frightened for you? They did just learn that there had been two attacks on your life, after all — any parent would want their child home, after such a thing.”

“Maybe. But she would have said the same thing even if I’d written that my days were filled with nothing but picking flowers in sunshine-filled meadows and singing with the birds. She never wanted me to leave in the first place, even more than Father.” I forced myself to lay the letter down on the table, knowing I’d regret it later if I crumpled it up and tossed it into the fire. “It’s fine. I’m used to it. I just need to … take my mind off things.” I glanced at the bronze imitation-Dwemer timepiece Corpulus had hanging in pride of place behind the bar. “It’s time I started playing, anyway. I need an early night, or I’ll sleep in and be late for Danica again tomorrow. I’d quite like to move on from endlessly picking and regrowing plants.”

Ignoring Inigo’s concerned face I pushed my half-finished supper away, drained my goblet of wine, and strode across the room to unpack my lute.

Why had I expected anything different? I knew my parents. I knew what they thought, what they believed, about how the world worked and my place in it. I’d been a fool to think that a letter from home would raise in me anything better than supremely mixed feelings.

I tuned my lute, a little over-aggressively, and launched into my first piece. My answer to Mother would remain the same as it had been the day I had left, when she’d refused even to come see me off on the ship. My place was not in Aldcroft. Not now — and, I thought for the first time, perhaps not ever again.


End file.
